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STORIES IN VERSE. 




THE PALFREY. 



P. 212. 




( FARRl kGDON STREEjM/ 



4855. 



STOKIES IN VERSE. 



BY 



e ^-fv LEIGH HUNT. 



NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 



Wtt\ gltosfcHtiotts. 



LONDON: 
GEO. ROUTLEDGE & CO., EARRINGDON STREET, 

NEW YORK : 18, BEEKMAN STREET. 

1855. 



fy 



*fM 



LONDON : 

SAV1LL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS-STREET, 

COVENT GARDEN. 



W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



TO 



HIS GEACE THE DUKE OF DEYONSHIEE, E.G. 



A NAME SYNONYMOUS WITH TASTE AND BENEFICENCE; 
THE PEINCELIEST EEPEESENTATIVE OF AN EVEE PEINCELY 
HOUSE; THE LANDLOBD BELOVED OF HIS TENANTS, BOTH 
IN ENGLAND AND IN IEELAND ; THE FEIEND OF HONEST 
ADVEESITY, NOTWITHSTANDING DIFFEEENCES OF OPINION ; 
THE DISCEENEE AND BAISEE OF MEEIT IN HUMBLE 
STATION; THE ADOENEE OF HIS COUNTEY WITH BEAUTI- 
FUL GARDENS, AND WITH THE FAE-FETCHED BOTANY OF 
OTHEE CLIMATES; ONE, OF WHOM IT MAY BE SAID, 
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VI DEDICATION. 

IN DIFFUSING A LOVE OF THE GEACES AND GENEROSITIES 
THAT SWEETEN AND EXALT HUMANITY, AEE INSCRIBED, 
WITH EVEEY SENTIMENT OF GEATITUDE, BY 

HIS GRACE'S 

MOST OBLIGED, 

AND MOST AFFECTIONATE HUMBLE SERVANT, 

LEIGH HUNT. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

PEEFACE . 1 

A STUDY IN VEESIFICATION 38 

THE STOEY OF EIMINI; OE, FEUITS OF A PAEENT's 

FALSEHOOD 55 

CANTO I. — THE COMING TO FETCH THE BEIDE 

FEOM EAVENNA 56 

CANTO II. — THE BEIDE'S JOUENEY TO EIMINI 70 

CANTO III. — THE FATAL PASSION 81 

CANTO IV. — HOW THE BEIDE EETUENED TO 

EAVENNA 106 

HEEO AND LEANDEE .-,,;. 129 

THE PANTHEE .;;;>.>.*.... 141 



vu * CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
BALLADS OF EOBIN HOOD : 

BOBIN HOOD A CHILD 145 

BOBIN hood's FLIGHT 152 

BOEIN HOOD AN OUTLAW 159 

HOW BOBIN AND HIS OUTLAWS LIVED IN THE 

WOODS 161 

MAHMOUD 165 

THE GENTLE ABMOUE ; OB, THBEE E:NIGHTS IN STEEL 

AGAINST ONE IN LINEN 169 

THE PALFEEY 185 

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS 226 

ABOU BEN ADHEM 229 

GODIVA 230 

JAFFAB .... * 234 . 

THE BITTEB GOUBD 236 

THE INEVITABLE 238 

WALLACE AND FAWDON 241 

EIILSPINDIE 248 

THE TEUMPETS OF DOOLKABNEIN 252 

ABBAHAM AND THE FIBE-WOBSHIPPEB 256 

DEATH AND THE BUFFIANS 262 

CAMBUS KHAN 274 



CONTENTS. IX 

&xnrt$lntiaxtz. 

PAGE 

THE INFANT HEECULES AND THE SERPENTS . . . 298 

PAULO AND FEANCESCA 303 

UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN 304 

MEDORO AND CLORIDANO 310 

ANGELICA AND MEDORO 327 

LAZY CORNER; OR, BED VERSUS BUSINESS .... 335 

THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP 346 

THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS 348 



PREFACE, 

CONTAINING REMARKS ON THE FATHER OF ENGLISH NARRATIVE 
POETRY ; ON THE ILL-UNDERSTOOD NATURE OF HEROIC VERSE \ 
ON THE NECESSITY, EQUALLY ILL-UNDERSTOOD, OF THE 
MUSICAL ELEMENT IN POETRY TO POETRY IN GENERAL; AND 
ON THE ABSURDITY OF CONFINING THE NAME OF POETRY TO 
ANY ONE SPECIES OF IT IN PARTICULAR. 

As this book, in issuing from the house of Messrs. 
Routledge, acquires a special chance of coming under 
the cognizance of travellers by the railway, I have 
pleased myself with fancying, that it gives me a kind 
of new link, however remote like the rest, with my 
great master in the art of poetry; that is to say, with 
the great master of English narrative in verse, the 
Father of our Poetry itself, Chaucer. 

Nay, it gives me two links, one general, and one 
particular; for as Chaucer's stories, in default of there 
being any printed books and travelling carriages in 
those days, were related by travellers to one another, 

B 



A PREFACE. 

and as these stories will be read, and (I hope) shown 
to one another, by travellers who are descendants of 
those travellers, (see how the links thicken as we 
advance!) so one of Chaucer's stories concerned a 
wonderful Magic Horse; and now, one of the most 
wonderful of all such horses will be speeding my 
readers and me together to all parts of the kingdom, 
with a fire hitherto unknown to any horse whatsoever. 

How would the great poet have been delighted to 
see the creature ! — and what would he not have said 
of it! 

I say " creature," because though your fiery Loco- 
motive is a creation of man's, as that of the poet was, 
yet as the poet's "wondrous Horse of Brass" was 
formed out of ideas furnished him by Nature, so, out 
of elements no less furnished by Nature, and the first 
secrets of which are no less amazing, has been formed 
this wonderful Magic Horse of Iron and Steam, which, 
with vitals of fire, clouds literally flowing from its 
nostrils, and a bulk, a rushing, and a panting like that 
of some huge antediluvian wild beast, is now heard and 
seen in all parts of the country, and in most parts of 
civilized Europe, breaking up the old grounds of 



PREFACE. 3 

alienation, and carrying with it the seeds of universal 

brotherhood. 

Yerily, something even of another, but most grating 

link, starts up out of that reflection upon the poet's 

miracle; for the hero who rode his horse of brass 

made war with Russia; and we Englishmen, the 

creators of the Horse of Iron, are warring with the 

despot of the same barbarous country, pitting the 

indignant genius of civilization against his ruffianly 

multitudes. 

" At Sana, in the land of Tartarie, 
There dwelt a king that warried Russie, 
Through which there died many a doughty man." 

Many a doughty man, many a noble heart of captain 
and of common soldier,* has perished in this new war 
against the old ignorance ; — an ignorance, that by its 
sullen persistence in rejecting the kindly advice of 
governments brave and great enough to be peaceful, 
forced the very enthusiasts of peace (myself among the 
number) into the conviction, that out of hatred and 
loathing of war itself, war must be made upon him. 

* This passage was written before one to similar purport, which 
is quoted further on. 

b2 



4: PKEFACE. 

If a lunatic will not put down his sword, and there is 
no other mode of restraining him, the sword must put 
down the lunatic. 

May there be such a tale to tell of him, as shall sur- 
pass in its results the most compensating terminations 
of story-books, and even the marvels of the affecting 
heroism with which his multitudes have been over- 
thrown ! I am not sure that the friendship which the 
war has occasioned between France and England is not 
alone sufficient to pay for it; yet war is so atrocious 
an evil, and those who personally and mentally suffer 
by it have alone such a right to the casting votes in its 
question, that all who sit at home by their firesides in 
safety and in comfort ought finally to contemplate 
nothing but its extinction. Gather those votes on 
fields of battle, on fields after the battle, in hospitals, 
in bereaved homes, in sorrowing and sicklied genera- 
tions, and then talk of "opinions" on the subject. 

How can the man Nicholas lie in his bed, and think 
of the miseries, in body and in soul, which he inflicts 
on millions of his fellow-creatures ! 

But he talks of " God !" and when such a man talks 
of God, the case becomes hopeless. Assassins talk so. 



PEEFACE. Q 

Massacrers of Protestant and of Papist talked so. His 
ancestors talked so, when they slew one another; and 
other murderers talked so, when they slew others of 
the ancestors. The strangulations by which Nicholas's 
father and grandfather, and some think even his 
brother Alexander perished, were justified by such 
talk. Will nothing teach him the peril of it ? Are 
" instruments in the hands of Providence " never 
chucked away into corners, and treated with the 
greatest contempt? 

But I must not be forgetting story for history. 

Let me take this opportunity of recommending such 
readers as are not yet acquainted with Chaucer, to 
make up for their lost time. The advice is not to my 
benefit, but it is greatly to theirs, and loyalty to him 
forces me to speak. The poet's " old English " is no 
difficulty, if they will but believe it. A little study 
would soon make them understand it as easily as that 
of most provincial dialects. Chaucer is the greatest 
narrative poet in the language ; that is to say, the 
greatest and best teller of stories, in the understood 
sense of that term. He is greatest in every respect, 
and in the most opposite qualifications; greatest in 



6 PREFACE. 

pathos, greatest in pleasantry, greatest in character, 
greatest in plot, greatest even in versification, if the 
unsettled state of the language in his time, and the 
want of all native precursors in the art, be considered ; 
for his verse is anything but the rugged and formless 
thing it has been supposed to be ; and if Dryden sur- 
passed him in it, not only was the superiority owing 
to the master's help, but there were delicate and noble 
turns and cadences in the old poet, which the poet of 
the age of Charles the Second wanted spirituality 
enough to appreciate. 

There have been several Chancers, and Helps to 
Chaucer, published of late years. Mr. Moxon has 
printed his entire works in one double-columned large 
octavo volume ; Messrs. Houtledge have published the 
Canterbury Tales in a smaller volume, with delicate 
illustrations by Mr. Corbould, the best (as far as I am 
aware) that ever came from his pencil; and there is a 
set of the poet's works now going through the press, 
more abundant than has yet appeared in commentary 
and dissertation, in Robert Bell's Annotated Edition of 
the English Poets, — the only collection of the kind in 
the language, though it has so long been a desideratum. 



PREFACE. / 

Chaucer's country disgraced itself for upwards of a 
century by considering the Father of its Poetry as 
nothing but an obsolete jester. Even poets thought 
so, in consequence of a prevailing ignorance of nine- 
tenths of his writings, originating in the gross tastes of 
the age of Charles the Second. There are passages, it 
is true, in Chaucer, which for the sake of all parties, 
persons of thorough delicacy will never read twice; 
fur they were compliances with the licence of an age, 
in which the court itself, his sphere, was as clownish 
in some of its tastes as the unqualified admirers of 
Swift and Prior are now ; and the great poet lamented 
that he had condescended to write them. But by far 
the greatest portion of his works is full of delicacies of 
every kind, of the noblest sentiment, of the purest, 
most various, and most profound entertainment. 

Postponing, however, what I have to say further on 
the subject of Chaucer, it becomes, I am afraid, a little 
too obviously proper, as well as more politic, to return, 
in this Preface, to the book of the humblest of his 
followers. 

I have taken occasion from this collection of my 
narrative poems to reprint the Story of Rimini ac- 



O PREFACE. 

cording to its first size and treatment. T have done 
this in compliance not only with my own judgment, 
but with that (as far as I could ascertain it) of the 
majority of my readers. The refashionment of the 
poem was always an unwilling, and I now believe was 
a mistaken concession, to what I supposed to be the 
ascertained facts of the story and the better convey- 
ance of the moral. I have since discovered that there 
are no ascertained facts which disallow my first con- 
ceptions of either; and it is with as much pleasure as 
a modest sense of the pretensions of my performance 
will allow, that I restore those passages relating to the 
sorrows of the wife, and to the fatal conflict of the 
brothers, which have been honoured with the tears of 
some of the manliest as well as tenderest eyes. 

The occasional alterations or additions which have 
been made in the context, I hope for the better, are 
only such as might naturally suggest themselves to an 
author while giving a republication its last corrections. 

The few remarks which it seemed proper to make 
on the other stories will be found accompanying them 
as notes or introductions. 

I have not considered as stories those pieces of fancy 



PREFACE. y 

which, however related as such, could, under no cir- 
cumstances, be supposed to be matters of fact. These, 
such as Captain Sivord and Captain Pen, the Feast of 
the Poets, Blue Stocking Bevels, the Fancy Concert, and 
many other pieces which have also been never before 
collected, will appear in a subsequent volume, containing 
the whole of the author's Miscellaneous Poems, should 
the sale of the present volume render it advisable. 
And the Miscellaneous Poems would be followed by a 
collection of Dramas, partly also hitherto unpublished; 
thus completing the whole of the authors productions 
in verse. 

The stories are put in the order in which they were 
written; partly, because this mode of arrangement is 
easiest as well as best, where it interferes with no 
classification; and partly, because it enables readers 
who are curious on such points to see the progress of 
an author's style, his changes from one manner to 
another, or his modifications of the manner that may 
be peculiar to himself. I do not assume that the 
object of such a curiosity must needs be commensurate 
with it in point of worth. 

When I wrote the Story of Rimini, which was 



10 PREFACE. 

between the years 1812 and 1815, I was studying 
versification in the school of Dryden. Masterly as my 
teacher was, I felt, without knowing it, that there 
was a want in him, even in versification; and the 
supply of this want, later in life, I found in his far 
greater master, Chaucer; for though Dryden's versifi- 
cation is noble, beautiful, and so complete of its kind, 
that to an ear uninstructed in the metre of the old 
poet, all comparison between the two in this respect 
seems out of the question, and even ludicrous, yet 
the measure in which Dryden wrote not only origi- 
nated, but attained to a considerable degree of its 
beauty, in Chaucer; and the old poet's immeasurable 
superiority in sentiment and imagination, not only to 
Dryden, but to all, up to a very late period, who 
have written in the same form of verse, left him in 
possession of beauties, even in versification, which it 
remains for some future poet to amalgamate with 
Dryden's in a manner worthy of both, and so carry 
England's noble heroic rhyme to its pitch of per- 
fection. 

Critics, and poets too, have greatly misconceived 
the rank and requirements of this form of verse, who 



PREFACE. 1 1 

have judged it from the smoothness and monotony 
which it died of towards the close of the last century, 
and from which nothing was thought necessary for its 
resuscitation but an opposite unsystematic extreme. 
A doubt, indeed, of a very curious and hitherto 
unsuspected, or at least unnoticed nature, may be 
entertained by inquirers into the musical portion of 
the art of poetry (for poetry is an art as well as a 
gift) ; namely, whether, since the time of Dryden, any 
poets whatsoever, up to the period above alluded to 
(and very few indeed have done otherwise since 
then), thought of versification as a thing necessary to 
be studied at all, with the exceptions of Gray and 
Coleridge. 

The case remains the same at present; but such 
assuredly was not the case either with Dryden himself, 
or with any of the greater poets before him, the 
scholarly ones in particular, such as Spenser, Milton, 
and their father Chaucer, who was as learned as any 
of them for the time in which he lived, and well 
acquainted with metres, French, Latin, and Italian. 

Poets less reverent to their art, out of a notion that 
the gift, in their instance, is of itself sufficient for all 



12 PREFACE. 

its purposes, (which is much as if a musician should 
think he could do without studying thorough-bass, 
or a painter without studying drawing and colours,) 
trust to an ear which is often not good enough 
to do justice to the amount of gift which they 
really possess; and hence comes a loss, for several 
generations together, of the whole musical portion of 
poetry, to the destruction of its beauty in tone and in 
movement, and the peril of much good vitality in new 
writers. For proportions, like all other good things, 
hold together; and he that is wanting in musical 
feeling where music is required, is in danger of being 
discordant and disproportionate in sentiment, of not 
perceiving the difference between thoughts worthy 
and unworthy of utterance. It is for this reason 
among others, that he pours forth " crotchets" in 
abundance, not in unison with his theme, and wanting 
in harmony with one another. 

There is sometimes a kind of vague and (to the 
apprehensions of the unmusical) senseless melody, 
which in lyrical compositions, the song in particular, 
really constitutes, in the genuine poetical sense of the 
beautiful, what the scorner of it says it falsely and 



PEEFACE. 13 

foolishly constitutes — namely, a good half of its merit. 
It answers to variety and expression of tone in a 
beautiful voice, and to "air/' grace, and freedom in 
the movements of a charming person, The Italians, 
in their various terms for the beautiful, have a word 
for it precisely answering to the first feeling one has 
in attempting to express it — vago, — vague; something 
wandering, fluctuating, undefinable, undetainable, 
moving hither and thither at its own sweet will and 
pleasure, in accordance with what it feels. It overdoes 
nothing and falls short of nothing ; for itself is nothing 
but the outward expression of an inward grace. You 
perceive it in all genuine lyrical compositions, of 
whatever degree, and indeed in all compositions that 
sing or speak with true musical impulse, in whatsoever 
measure, in the effusions of Burns, of Ben Jonson, of 
Beaumont and Fletcher, of Allan Bamsay, of Metas- 
tasio, of Coleridge; and again in those of Dryden, of 
Spenser, of Chaucer, of Ariosto; in poems however 
long, and in passages however seemingly unlyrical; 
for it is one of the popular, and I am afraid, generally 
speaking, critical mistakes, in regard to rhymed verse, 
that in narrative and heroic poems there is nothing 



14 PREFACE. 

wanting to the music, provided the line or the couplet 
be flowing, and the general impression not rude or 
weak; whereas the best couplet, however admirable in 
itself and worthy of quotation, forms but one link in 
the chain of the music to which it belongs. Poems of 
any length must consist of whole strains of couplets, 
whole sections and successions of them, brief or pro- 
longed, all as distinct from one another and complete 
in themselves, as the adagios and andantes of sym- 
phonies and sonatas, each commencing in the tone and 
obvious spirit of commencement, proceeding through 
as great a variety of accents, stops, and pauses, as the 
notes and phrases of any other musical composition, 
and coming at an equally fit moment to a close. 

Enough stress has never yet been laid on the 
analogies between musical and poetical composition. 
All poetry used formerly to be sung; and poets still 
speak of " singing" what they write. Petrarch used 
to " try his sonnets on the lute ;" that is to say, to 
examine them in their musical relations, in order to 
see how they and musical requirement went together; 
and a chapter of poetical narrative is called to this day 
a canto, or chant. Every distinct section or paragraph 



PREFACE. 15 

of a long poem ought to form a separate, interwoven, 
and varied melody ; and every very short poem should, 
to a fine ear, be a still more obvious melody of the same 
sort, in order that its brevity may contain as much 
worth as is possible, and show that the poet never for- 
gets the reverence due to his art. 

I have sometimes thought that if Chaucer could have 
heard compositions like those of Coleridge's Christahel, 
he might have doubted whether theirs was not the best 
of all modes and measures for reducing a narrative to 
its most poetic element, and so producing the quintes- 
sence of a story. And for stories not very long, not very 
substantial in their adventures, and of a nature more 
imaginary than credible, so they might be. But for 
narrative poetry in general, for epic in particular, and 
for stories of any kind that are deeply to affect us as 
creatures of flesh and blood and human experience, 
there is nothing for a sustained and serious interest 
comparable with our old heroic measure, whether in 
blank verse or rhyme, in couplet or in stanza. An 
epic poem written in the Christabel, or any other brief 
lyrical measure, would acquire, in the course of perusal, 
a comparative tone of levity, an air of too great an 



16 PREFACE. 

airiness. The manner would turn to something like 
not being in earnest, and the matter resemble a diet 
made all of essences. We should miss pieces de re- 
sistance, and the homely, but sacred pabulum of " our 
daily bread." You could as soon fancy a guitar put in 
place of a church organ, as an Iliad or Paradise Lost 
written in that manner. You would associate with it 
no tone of Scripture, nothing of the religious solemnity 
which Chaucer has so justly been said to impart to his 
pathetic stories. When poor Griselda, repudiated by 
her husband, and about to return to her father's cot- 
tage, puts off the clothes which she had worn as the 
consort of a great noble, she says, — 

" My lord, ye wot that in my father's place, 
Ye did me strip out of my poore weed, 
And richely me cladden of your grace. 
To you brought I nought elles, out of dreed, [else doubt 
But faith, and nakedness, and maidenheed ; 
And here again my clothing I restore, 
And eke my wedding-ring for evermore. 

The remnant of your jewels ready be 
Within your chamber, dare I safely sayn ; [say 
1 Naked out of my father's house (quoth she) 
I came, and naked must I turn again.' "* 



* The spelling is modernized in the quotations which I have 
made from Chaucer in this Preface, in order that while producing 



PREFACE. 1 7 

This quotation from the Bible would have been in- 
jured by a shorter measure. 

Griselda, in words most proper and affecting, but 
which cannot so well be quoted, apart from the entire 
story, goes on to say, that she must not deprive of 
every one of its clothes the body which had been made 
sacred by motherhood. She tells the father of her 
children, that it is not fit she should be seen by the 
people in that condition. 

* ' Wherefore I you pray, 

Let me not like a worm go oy the way. 1 ' 

This is one of the most imploring and affecting lines 
that ever were written. It is also most beautifully 

samples of his "beauties, no baulk may be given to a ready percep- 
tion of them on the part of readers unacquainted -with him in 
print. It is best, doubtless, to become intimate with Chaucer in 
his own spelling, for many reasons, more than philological ; and it 
is so easy to do this with a little painstaking, that the charge of 
the reverse is really a thing to be ashamed of. But in a first 
introduction, it is desirable to put a visitor at his ease. 

Readers who may wish for as long a first visit of this kind as 
possible, will find it indulged in the modernized spelling of Mr. 
Cowden Clarke's Riches of Chaucer, which is an admirable selec- 
tion of all the best things in the great man, to the exclusion of 
what the licence of his times has rendered not so proper to be 
read. 



18 PKEFACE. 

modulated, though not at all after the fashion of the 
once all in all "smooth" couplet. But the masterly 
accents throughout it, particularly the emphasis on 
"worm," would have wanted room, and could have 
made no such earnest appeal, in a measure of less length 
and solemnity. 

Irony itself gains by this measure. There is no 
sarcasm in Hudibras, exquisite as its sarcasm is, com- 
parable for energy of tone and manner with Dryden's 
denunciation (I do not say just denunciation) of every 
species of priest. I allude to the last four lines of the 
following passage : — 

" Thus worn, or weaken' d, well or ill content, 
Submit they must to David's government, 
Impoverish' d, and depriv'd of all command, 
Their taxes doubled as they lost their land, 
And what was harder yet to flesh and blood, 
Their gods disgrac'd, and burnt like common wood. 
This set the heathen priesthood in a flame ; 
For priests of all religions are the same. 
Of ivhatsod er descent their godhead be, 
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree, 
In his defence his servants are as bold, 
As if he had been born of beaten gold." 

It is worth the while of a student in versification to 
consider those four lines. They are perfect in music, 



PREFACE. 19 

expression, and force. The last, in particular, is a 

model, both for the image and the treatment; the 

image new, apposite, and surprising ; the place in which 

it is put giving musical fulness to the cadence; its 

utterance bold, strong, and beautiful to the last degree, 

both of melody and power. The b's beat it as if it was 

on an anvil ; as if the gold they speak of were under 

their hammers; and the variety and toning of the 

vowels gives sweetness to the hangs. Mark the variety 

of accent which the poet has put into the space of four 

lines, and the strength which the slight sound on the 

last syllable of pedigree gives to the word bold, in the 

line ensuing : 

" Of whatsoe'er descent their godhead be, 
Stock, stone, or other homely pedigree, 
In his defence his servants are as bold, 
As if he had been born of beaten gold." 

I have dwelt more than is customary on this musical 
portion of the subject of poetry, for two reasons: first, 
because, as I have before intimated, it has a greater 
connexion than is commonly thought, both with the 
spiritual and with the substantial portions of the art ; 
and second, because, as I have asserted, and am pre- 
pared to show, versification, or the various mode of 

c2 



20 



PREFACE. 



uttering that music, has been neglected among us to a 
degree which is not a little remarkable, considering 
what an abundance of poets this country has produced. 

England, it is true, is not a musical country ; at any 
rate not yet, whatever its new trainers may do for it. 
But it is a very poetical country, minus this requisite 
of poetry; and it seems strange that the deficit should 
be corporately, as well as nationally characteristic. It 
might have been imagined, that superiority in the one 
respect would have been accompanied by superiority 
in the other; — that they who excelled the majority of 
their countrymen in poetical perception, would have 
excelled them in musical. Is the want the same as 
that which has made us inferior to other great nations 
in the art of painting ? Are we geographically, com- 
mercially, statistically, or how is it, that we are less 
gifted than other nations with those perceptions of 
the pleasurable, which qualify people to excel as 
painters and musicians'? It is observable, that our 
poetry, compared with that of other countries, is de- 
ficient in animal spirits. 

At all events, it is this ignorance of the necessity of 
the whole round of the elements of poetry for the pro- 



PREFACE. 21 

duction of a perfect poetical work, and the non-percep- 
tion, at the same time, of the two-fold fact, that there 
is no such work in existence, and that the absence of 
no single element of poetry hinders the other elements 
from compounding a work truly poetical of its kind, 
which at different periods of literature produce so many 
defective and peremptory judgments respecting the 
exclusive right of this or that species of poetry to be 
called poetry. In Chaucer's time, there were probably 
Chaucerophilists who would see no poetry in any other 
man's writing. Sir Walter Raleigh, nevertheless, who, 
it might be supposed, would have been an enthusiastic 
admirer of the Knight's and Squire's Tales, openly 
said, that he counted no English poetry of any value 
but that of Spenser. In Cowley's time, " thinking" 
was held to be the all in all of poetry : poems were to 
be crammed full of thoughts, otherwise intellectual 
activity was wanting ; and hence, nothing was consi- 
dered poetry, in the highest sense of the term, that did 
not resemble the metaphysics of Cowley. His " lan- 
guage of the heart," which has survived them, went 
comparatively for nothing. When the Puritans 
brought sentiment into discredit, nothing was con- 



22 PREFACE. 

sidered comparable, in any species of poetry, with, 
the noble music and robust sensuous perception of 
Dry den. Admirable poet as he was, he was thought 
then, and long afterwards, to be far more admir- 
able, — indeed, the sole 

"Great high-priest of all the Nine." 

Then " sense" became the all in all ; and because Pope 
wrote a great deal of exquisite sense, adorned with 
wit and fancy, he was pronounced, and long considered, 
literally, the greatest poet that England had seen. A 
healthy breeze from the unsophisticate region of the 
Old English Ballads suddenly roused the whole poetical 
elements into play, restoring a sense of the combined 
requisites of imagination, of passion, of simple speaking, 
of music, of animal spirits, <fec, not omitting, of course, 
the true thinking which all sound feeling implies ; and 
though, with the prevailing grave tendency of the 
English muse, some portions of these poetical re- 
quisites came more into play than others, and none of 
our poets, either since or before, have combined them 
all as Chaucer and Shakspeare did, yet it would as ill 
become poets or critics to ignore any one of them in 



PREFACE. 23 

favour of exclusive pretensions on the part of any 
others, as it would to say, that all the music, and 
animal spirits, and comprehensiveness might be taken 
out of those two wonderful men, and they remain just 
what they were. 

To think that there can be no poetry, properly so 
called, where there is anything " artificial," where 
there are conventionalisms of style, where facts are 
simply related without obviously imaginative treat- 
ment, or where manner, for its own sake, is held to be 
a thing of any account in its presentation of matter, is 
showing as limited a state of critical perception as 
that of the opposite conventional faction, who can see 
no poetry out of the pale of received forms, classical 
associations, or total subjections of spiritual to mate- 
rial treatment. It is a case of imperfect sympathy on 
both sides; — of incompetency to discern and enjoy in 
another what they have no corresponding tendency to 
in themselves. It is often a complexional case; 
perhaps always so, more or less: for writers and 
critics, like all other human creatures, are physically 
as well as morally disposed to be what they become. 
It is the entire man that writes and thinks, and not 



24 PREFACE. 

merely the head. His leg has often as much to do 
with it as his head ; — the state of his calves, his vitals, 
and his nerves. 

There is a charming line in Chaucer : — 
" Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily." 
Now here are two simple matters of fact, which 
happen to occur simultaneously. The sun rises, and 
the lady rises at the same time. Well, what is there 
in that, some demanders of imaginative illustration 
will say? Nothing, answers one, but an hyperbole. 
Nothing, says another, but a conceit. It is a mere 
commonplace turn of gallantry, says a third. On the 
contrary, it is the reverse of all this. It is pure 
morning freshness, enthusiasm, and music. Writers, 
no doubt, may repeat it till it becomes a commonplace, 
but that is another matter. Its first sayer, the great 
poet, sees the brightest of material creatures, and the 
beautifulest of human creatures, rising at dawn at the 
same time. He feels the impulse strong upon him to 
do justice to the appearance of both; and with glad- 
ness in his face, and music on his tongue, repeating the 
accent on a repeated syllable, and dividing the rhythm 
into two equal parts, in order to leave nothing undone 



PKEFACE. 25 

to show the merit on both sides, and the rapture of 
his impartiality, he utters, for all time, his enchanting 
record.* 

Now it requires animal spirits, or a thoroughly loving 
nature, to enjoy that line completely; and yet, on 
looking well into it, it will be found to contain 
(by implication) simile, analogy, and, indeed, every 
other form of imaginative expression, apart from that 
of direct illustrative words ; which, in such cases, may 
be called needless commentary. The poet lets nature 
speak for herself. He points to the two beautiful 
objects before us, and is content with simply hailing 
them in their combination. 

In all cases where Nature should thus be left to 
speak for herself (and they are neither mean nor few 
cases, but many and great) the imaginative faculty, 
which some think to be totally suspended at such times, 

* The Knight's Tale, in which this line occurs, is an exquisite 
abridgment of a long and prolix poem, called The Theseid (La 
Teseide), by Boccaccio, who, great, and grave, and Chaucer-like 
genius as he was in other respects, and subjected by the same 
causes to the same popular misconception, did not possess the art of 
writing verse. Though Boccaccio, however, supplied Chaucer with 
the original story, the line here quoted, with numberless other 
beauties, is our poet's own. 



26 



PREFACE. 



is, on the contrary, in fall activity, keeping aloof all 
irrelevancies and impertinence, and thus showing how 
well it understands its great mistress. When Lady 
Macbeth says she should have murdered Duncan 
herself, 

" Had lie not resembled 
Her father as he slept," 

she said neither more nor less than what a poor 
criminal said long afterwards, and quite unaware of 
the passage, when brought before a magistrate from a 
midnight scuffle in a barge on the Thames ; — " I should 
have killed him, if he Jiad not looked so like my father 
while he was sleeping." Shakspeare made poetry of 
the thought by putting it into verse, — into modula- 
tion; but he would not touch it otherwise. He 
reverenced Nature's own simple, awful, and sufficing 
suggestion too much, to add a syllable to it for the 
purpose of showing off his subtle powers of imaginative 
illustration. And with no want of due reverence to 
Shakspeare be it said, that it is a pity he did not act 
invariably with the like judgment; — that he suffered 
thought to crowd upon thought, where the first feeling 
was enough. So, what can possibly be imagined 



PREFACE. 27 

simpler, finer, completer, less wanting anything beyond 
itself, than the line in which poor old Lear, unable to 
relieve himself with his own trembling fingers, asks 
the byestander to open his waistcoat for him, — not 
forgetting, in the midst of his anguish, to return him 
thanks for so doing, like a gentleman : 

11 Pray you undo this button. — Thank you, Sir." 

The poet here presents us with two matters of fact, 
in their simplest and apparently most prosaical form ; 
yet, when did ever passion or imagination speak more 
intensely 1 and this, purely because he has let them 
alone 1 

There is another line in Chaucer, which seems to 
be still plainer matter of fact, with no imagination 
in it of any kind, apart from the simple necessity of 
imagining the fact itself. It is in the story of the 
Tartar king, which Milton wished to have had com- 
pleted. The king has been feasting, and is moving 
from the feast to a ball-room : 

" Before him goeth the loud minstrelsy." 

Now, what is there in this line (it might be asked) 
which might not have been said in plain prose ? which 



28 PREFACE. 

indeed is not prose? The king is preceded by his 
musicians, playing loudly. What is there in that ? 

Well, there is something even in that, if the prosers 
who demand so much help to their perceptions could 
but see it. But verse fetches it out and puts it in its 
proper state of movement. The line itself, being a 
line of verse, and therefore a musical movement, 
becomes processional, and represents the royal train in 
action. The word " goeth," which a less imaginative 
writer would have rejected in favour of something 
which he took to be more spiritual and uncommon, is 
the soul of the continuity of the movement. It is put, 
accordingly, in its most emphatic place. And the 
word "loud" is suggestive at once of royal power, and of 
the mute and dignified serenity, superior to that mani- 
festation of it, with which the king follows. 

"Before him goeth the loud minstrelsy." 

Any reader who does not recognise the stately " go," 
and altogether noble sumcinguess of that line, may 
rest assured that thousands of the beauties of poetry 
will remain for ever undiscovered by him, let him be 
helped by as many thoughts and images as he may. 



PREFACE. 29 

So in a preceding passage where the same musicians 
are mentioned. 

" And so befell, that after the third course, 
While that this King sat thus in his nobley, — [nobleness 
Hearing his minstralles their thing es play 
Before him at his board deliciously, 
In at the halle-door all suddenly 
There came a knight upon a steed of brass, 
And in his hand a broad mirror of glass ; 
Upon his thumb he had of gold a ring, 
And by his side a naked sword hanging, 
And up he rideth to the highe board. — 
In all the halle n'as there spoke a word [was not 
For marvel of this knight. — Him to behold 
Full busily they waited, young and old. " 

In some of these lines, what would otherwise be prose, 
becomes, by the musical feeling, poetry. The king, 
" sitting in his nobleness," is an imaginative picture. 
The word " deliciously" is a venture of animal spirits, 
which, in a modern writer, some critics would pro- 
nounce to be affected, or too familiar ; but the enjoyment, 
and even incidental appropriateness and relish of it, will 
be obvious to finer senses. And in the pause in the 
middle of the last couplet but one, and that in 
the course of the first line of its successor, ex- 
amples were given by this supposed unmusical old 



30 PEEFACE. 

poet, of some of the highest refinements of versifi- 
cation. 

The secret of musical, as of all other feeling, lies in 
the depths of the harmonious adjustments of our 
nature; and a chord touched in any one of them, 
vibrates with the rest. In the Queen's beautiful letter 
to Mr. Sidney Herbert, about the sufferers in the 
Crimea, the touching words, " those poor noble wounded 
and sick men," would easily, and with perfectly poetical 
sufficiency, flow into verse. Chaucer, with his old 
English dissyllable, poore, (more piteous, because lin- 
gering in the sound,) would have found in them a 
verse ready made to his hand — 

u Those poore noble wounded and sick men." 

The passage is in fact just like one of his own verses, 
sensitive, earnest, strong, simple, full of truth, full of 
harmonious sympathy. Many a manly eye will it 
moisten; many a poor soldier, thus acknowledged to 
be a " noble," will it pay for many a pang. What, if 
transferred to verse, would it need from any other kind 
of imaginative treatment ? What, indeed, could it re- 
ceive but injury ? And yet, to see what is said by the 
demanders, on every possible poetical occasion, of per- 



PREFACE. 31 

petual commentating thoughts and imaginative ana- 
logies, one must conclude that they would pronounce 
it to be wholly unfit for poetry, unless something very 
fine were added about "poor," something very fine 
about " noble," something very fine about " wounded," 
and something very fine about " sick ;" a process by 
which our sympathy with the suffering heroes would 
come to nothing, in comparison with our astonishment 
at the rhetoric of the eulogizers, — which, indeed, is a 
" consummation" that writers of this description would 
seem to desire. 

Of all the definitions which have been given of 
poetry, the best is that which pronounces it to be 
" geniality, singing." I think, but am not sure, that it 
is Lamb's ; perhaps it is Coleridge's. I had not seen it, 
or, if I had, had lost all recollection of it, when I wrote 
the book called Imagination and Fancy; otherwise I 
would Lave substituted it for the definition given in 
that book; for it comprehends, by implication, all 
which is there said respecting the different classes and 
degrees of poetry, and excludes, at the same time, 
whatsoever does not properly come within the limits 
of the thing defined. 



32 PKEFACE. 

Geniality, thus considered, is not to be understood 
in its common limited acceptation of a warm and 
flowing spirit of companionship. It includes that and 
every other motive to poetic utterance; but it resumes 
its great primal meaning of the power of productive- 
ness ; that power from which the word Genius is de- 
rived, and which falls in so completely with the mean- 
ing of the word Poet itself, which is Maker. The poet 
makes, or produces, because he has a desire to do so ; 
and what he produces is found to be worthy, in pro- 
portion as time shows a desire to retain it. As all 
trees are trees, whatever be the different degrees of 
their importance, so all poets are poets whose produc- 
tions have a character of their own, and take root in 
the ground of national acceptance. The poet sings, 
because he is excited, and because whatsoever he does 
must be moulded into a shape of beauty. If imagina- 
tion predominates in him, and it is of the true kind, 
and he loves the exercise of it better than the fame, he 
stands a chance of being a poet of the highest order, 
but not of the only order. If fancy predominates, and 
the fancy is of the true kind, he is no less a poet in 
kind, though inferior in degree. If thought predomi- 



PREFACE. 33 

nate, lie is a contemplative poet : if a variety of these 
faculties in combination, he is various accordingly ; less 
great, perhaps, in each individually, owing to the 
divided interest which he takes in the claim upon his 
attention; but far greater, if equally great in all. 
Nevertheless, he does not hinder his less accomplished 
brethren from being poets. There is a talk of confining 
the appellation poet, to the inspired poet. But who and 
what is the inspired poet ? Inspired means " breathed 
into;" that is to say, by some superior influence. But 
how is not Dryden breathed into as well as Chaucer ? 
Milton as well as Shakspeare ? or Pope as well as 
Milton ? The flute, though out of all comparison with 
the organ, is still an instrument " breathed into." The 
only question is, whether it is breathed into finely, 
and so as to render it a flute extraordinary; whether 
the player is a man of genius after his kind, not to be 
mechanically made. You can no more make a Burns 
than a Homer ; no more the author of a Rape of the 
Lock than the author of Paradise Lost. If you could, 
you would have Burnses as plentiful as blackberries, 
and as many Rapes of the Lock as books of mightier 
pretension, that are for ever coming out and going into 

D 



34: PKEFACE. 

oblivion. Meantime, the Rape of the Lock remains, and 
why? Because it is an inspired poem; a poem as truly- 
inspired by the genius of wit and fancy, as the gravest 
and grandest that ever was written was inspired by 
passion and imagination. 

This is the secret of a great, national, book-reading 
fact, the existence of which has long puzzled exclusives 
in poetry; to wit, the never-failing demand in all 
civilized countries for successive publications of bodies 
of collected verse, called English or British Poets, 
Italian Poets, French Poets, Spanish Poets, &c. — 
collections which stand upon no ceremony whatever 
with exclusive predilections, but tend to include every 
thing that has attained poetical repute, and are gene- 
rally considered to be what they ought to be in pro- 
portion as they are copious. Poetasters are sometimes 
admitted for poets ; and poets are sometimes missed, 
because they have been taken for poetasters. But, 
upon the whole, the chance of excess is preferred : and 
the preference is well founded; for the whole system 
is founded on a judicious instinct. Feelings are 
nature's reasons; communities often feel better than 
individuals reason; and they feel better in this instance. 



PREFACE. 35 

Hence Popes and Drydens never cease to be found 
in collections of English verse, as well as Spensers 
and Miltons : hence Butlers and Swifts, as well as 
Popes and Drydens : hence all writers in verse, who 
have any character of their own whatsoever, and 
whose productions, having once become acquainted 
with them, readers who love " geniality" of any kind, 
€t singing," would miss. Butler could not have said 
so well in prose what he has said in verse ; and hence 
he felt an impulse to speak in verse, and he is a wit- 
poet accordingly. The flow of Swift's wit, of Prior's, 
of Green's (pity that the stream in the two former is 
so often polluted), would have wanted half its force and 
effect, without the compression given to it by verse. 
They felt this; they were as much inclined to the song 
of it as to the substance; and hence they also are wits 
who " sing ;" — poets, after their kind, not to be left 
out of the collections,* 

* It is gratifying to see that Mr. Bell's new edition of the 
Poets proceeds on this principle. He has given us a sample of it 
in being the first to admit into such a collection the works of 
Oldham, accompanied by a most satisfactory estimate of the life 
and writings of that promising young demi-savage of the school of 
Dryden. 

D2 



36 PREFACE. 

I had intended to close this Preface with something 
very modest, and very true, upon the difference, in 
various respects (T do not say in every respect), between 
my knowledge of what poetry ought to perform, and 
my own power of performing it. But I am a little 
tired of helping incompetent critics to discover and to 
overstate what is defective in me, and therefore shall 
leave them to gather the information where they can. 

The Story of Rimini was written at a period of 
transition from the artificial to the natural style of 
verse, and was thought at the time a bold innovation 
in behalf of the latter. T had the pleasure of seeing 
it break up the monotony of the heroic system of versi- 
fication then remaining. Had I written the poem now, 
I should have done much of it in a different manner, 
though I doubt whether with advantage to something 
in it of a certain youthful freshness. The young paint- 
ing, however, has now become an old one ; perhaps 
time has given it a mellowness which in some eyes 
may not be without its recommendation, especially 
when so many experiments are being made in poetical 
drawing and colouring, the correctness and congruity 
of which are not always as apparent as the abundance 



PREFACE. 37 

of their materials. At all events, the painting is after 
a certain mode, and had better be judged accordingly. 
I hope the long interval between its composition and 
that of later pieces and the Legend of Florence, has not 
altogether been passed in vain. 






A STUDY IN VERIFICATION. 



(From the Preface to the Octavo Edition of the Author's Poetical 
Works in the Year 1832.) 



I have retained, in the versification of the following 
poems, not only the triplets and alexandrines which 
some have objected to from their infrequent use in 
heroic poetry since the time of Dryden, but the double 
rhymes which have been disused since the days of 
Milton. 

It has been said of the triplet, that it is only a temp- 
tation to add a needless line to what ought to be com- 
prised in two. This is manifestly a half-sighted 
objection; for at least the converse of the proposition 
may be as true; namely, that it comprises, in one ad- 
ditional line, what two might have needlessly extended. 
And undoubtedly compression is often obtained by the 



A STUDY IX VERSIFICATION. 39 

triplet, and should never be injured by it; but I take 
its true spirit to be this; — that it carries onward the 
fervour of the poet's feeling; delivers him for the 
moment, and on the most suitable occasions, from the 
ordinary laws of his verse; and enables him to finish 
his impulse with triumph. In all instances where the 
triplet is not used for the mere sake of convenience, it 
expresses continuity of some sort, whether for the 
purpose of extension, or inclusion; and this is the 
reason why the alexandrine so admirably suits it, the 
spirit of both being a sustained enthusiasm. In pro- 
portion as this enthusiasm is less, or the feeling to be 
conveyed is one of hurry in the midst of aggregation, 
the alexandrine is perhaps generally dropped. The 
continuity implied by the triplet is one of four kinds : 
it is either an impatience of stopping, arising out of an 
eagerness to include; or it is the march of triumphant 
power; or it "builds the lofty rhyme" for some 
staider show of it; or lastly, it is the indulgence of a 
sense of luxury and beauty, a prolongation of delight. 
Dryden has fine specimens of alL 

Of the impatience of stopping: — a description of 
agitation of nerves : — 



40 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

" While listening to the murmuring leaves he stood, 
More than a mile immers'd within the wood, 
At once the wind was laid — the whispering sound 
Was dumb— a rising earthquake rock'd the ground : 
With deeper brown the grove was overspread, } 

A sudden horror seized his giddy head, > 

And his ears tinkled, and his colour fled." j 

Theodore and Ilonoria. 
Of the sense of power : — 

" If joys hereafter must be purchased here, 
With loss of all that mortals hold so dear, 
Then welcome infamy and public shame, 
And last, a long farewell to worldly fame ! 
'Tis said with ease ; but oh, how hardly tried } 
By haughty souls to human honour tied ! > 

Oh, sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride 1" J 

Hind and Panther, 

Of elevation and proportion : — 

" Our builders were with want of genius curst ; 
The second temple was not like the first ; 
Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length, 
Our beauties equal, but excel our strength : 
Firm Doric pillars found your solid base, \ 

The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space, > 

Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace." J 

Epistle to Congrcve. 
Of continuity of enjoyment : — 

" The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, 
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ; 
The fanning wind and purling stream continue her repose." 

Cynioii and fyhigenia. 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 41 

This last verse, which is two syllables longer than 
an alexandrine, and is happily introduced in this 
place, is peculiar to Dryden, and was taken by him 
from the lyric poets of his day. So was the alex- 
andrine itself, and the triplet. 

If Dryden had had sentiment, he would have been 
as great a poet natural, as he was artificial. The 
want, it must be owned, is no trifle ! It is idle, 
however, to wish the addition of these cubits to 
human stature. Let us be content with the greatness 
his genius gave him, and with our power to look up to it. 

Pope denounced alexandrines in a celebrated 

couplet, in which he seems to confound length of 

line with slowness of motion; two very distinct things, 

as Mr. Lamb has shown in one of his masterly essays. 

" A needless alexandrine ends the song, 
Which, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 

And yet, in his no less celebrated eulogy upon the 
versification of Dryden, he has attempted an imitation 
of his master's style, in which he has introduced both 
alexandrine and triplet. 

" Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join \ 
The varying verse, the full majestic line, 
The long resounding march, and energy divine." J 



42 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

How comes it, then, that he rejected both from his 
own poetry? The reason was, that he acted by a 
judicious instinct. He felt, that variety and energy 
were not what his muse would deal in, but beauties of 
a different sort; and he wisely confined himself to 
what he could do best. It is true, it seems strange 
that he should exalt Dryden's variety at the expense 
of Waller's smoothness. It looks like dispraising him- 
self. But then he felt that he had more in him than 
Waller; and that if he had not Dryden's variety, 
neither had he his carelessness, but carried the rhyming 
heroic to what he thought a perfection superior to 
both, and justly purchased by the sacrifice of Dryden's 
inequality. Inferior indeed as Pope's versification is 
to Dryden's, upon every principle both of power and 
music, nobody can deny that it admirably suits the 
nicer point of his genius, and the subjects on which it 
was exercised. Dryden had a trenchant sword, which 
demanded stoutness in the sheath. Pope's weapon 
was a lancet enclosed in pearl.* 

* We may see the difference exemplified in a couplet from their 
respective translations of Homer, neither of them, it must be con- 
fessed, worthy of the great broad hand of the old Greek : but the 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 43 

Let it not be thought (as it has too often been 
unthinkingly asserted) that remarks of this kind are 
meant to disparage our great master of poetic wit ; to 
whose genius I should think it a foppery to express 
even my homage, were it not for the sake of guarding 
against the imputation of a more preposterous im- 
modesty. But, in endeavouring to ascertain critically 
what is best in general composition, one is sometimes 
obliged to notice what is not so good, except in specific 
instances. 

two passages, especially the words marked in italics, are singularly 
characteristic of the writers. It is in the scene of the quarrel with 
Agamemnon, where Achilles, with his blade half out of the sheath, 
suddenly feels the hair of his head seized by his admonitress, 
Minerva, and with moody submission, dashes the ' c great sword" 
back again with his " heavy hand." Homer says : — 

*H, koll eV apyvper] Kiavrr) <rxe9e x e <-P a jSapetav, 
*A\f/ 8' 6? Kovkebv were /aeya £i</>os, ovS' awCO-ncre 
Mv0<u 'A^Tjvatrjs. Lib. I. v. 219. 

Dryden thus gives the passage : — 

" He said; with surly faith believed her word, 
And in the sheath, reluctant, plung'd the sword." 

Pope has it thus : — 

" He said, observant of the blue-eyed maid, 
Then in the sheath return' d the shining blade." 

" Surly faith" is too homely and familiar ; but the word plung'd 
is excellent, and comes precisely at the point of the verse where 
the sound of it is strongest and most analogous. It is the action 
itself. Pope's is that of an officer on parade. 



44 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

I confess I like the very bracket that marks out the 
triplet to the reader's eye, and prepares him for the 
music of it. It has a look like the bridge of a lute. 

With regard to double rhymes in the serious heroic 
couplet, they have been exploded among us ever since 
we fell under the formal spirit of the French school of 
Louis the Fourteenth's time. Waller, I believe, is the 
last writer of eminence in whom they are to be found; 
and in him they are very rare, and probably confined 
to his younger verses. Yet it is curious, that the 
rhyme in heroic French poetry is alternately single 
and double; in Italian poetry it is all double. In 
both instances, words have dictated to thoughts. The 
Italian language is so abundant in words of more than 
one syllable, and in accents upon the last syllable but 
one, that, except in lyric pieces, (where the understood 
accompaniment of music has modified the more formal 
rules of composition in all languages, and where the 
Italian singer nevertheless stretches out one termi- 
nating sound into two, whenever he can), a rhyming 
monosyllable has a quaintness and singularity in it, 
almost as startling as a box on the ear. It is for this 
reason, that whenever Pulci and the other old poets 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 45 

made use of it, they took the liberty of adding a 
syllable, or of restoring one which custom had cut off. 
In the case of the French, their stock of ultimate and 
penultimate accents is more equally divided than in 
either Italian or English ; and as their poetry, though 
in the flow of its lines it really has more of the Italian 
freedom than ours, yet for want of equal vigour to 
either has fallen more under the necessity of dis- 
tinguishing itself from prose, they gladly availed 
themselves of the circumstance, and made a rhyming 
system out of the alternation above-mentioned.'* In 
English we have so many monosyllables, in addition 
to our stock of final accents, that when the sense of 



* In the works of Drummond of Hawthornden (Songs and Son- 
nets, Part I. ) is a poem written after the French rhyming fashion, 
the only one (as far as I am aware) in the language. The following 
is a specimen, selected for the graceful vision in it : — 

" Methought through all the neighbour woods a noise 
Of choristers, more sweet than lute or voice, 
(For those harmonious sounds to Jove are given 
By the swift touches of the nine-string' d heaven, — 
Such air has nothing else) did wound (?) mine ear; 
No soul but would become all ear to hear : 
And whilst I listening lay, O lovely wonder ! 
I saw a pleasant myrtle cleave asunder, — 
A myrtle great with birth, — out of whose womb 
Three naked nymphs more white than snow forth come ; — 
For nymphs they seem'd. About their heavenly faces, 
In waves of gold, floated their curling tresses," &c. 



46 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

elegance and regularity became superior with us to 
passion and the love of truth, the superabundance of 
single rhymes had a natural tendency to throw out the 
double ones. Matter became secondary to manner; 
and by a natural consequence, the manner was not the 
best, but proceeded upon secondary assumptions. 

I have made a compromise in this matter of double 
rhymes. I have altered them to single ones, wherever 
I felt that they could be readily discarded, or without 
gainsaying the impulse with which I wrote. In the 
other cases I have retained them. My first determina- 
tion, in sitting down to correct the Story of Rimini, 
was to discard them altogether. I was prevented by 
a couplet in a great poet, which I cannot at present 
find. But I was wrong in the misgiving; for I wrote 
them out of a real impulse, and not a pretended one ; 
and I may venture to think, that impulses of this kind 
are a proper modification of the style of those who feel 
them. To deny them for the sake of denying, would 
be as foolish a thing as for a painter to efface the most 
involuntary touches of his pencil, not because they 
were out of nature, but because they were out of 
fashion. There is a consistency in manner as well as 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 47 

matter. The foliage of every species of tree does not 
suit every other, nor would be very safely displaced for 
any. And after all, the use which I have made of 
double rhymes, is a revival, not an innovation. That 
they are in themselves not incompatible with the 
greatest feeling and seriousness, might be shown, not 
only by the footing they have retained in lyric verse 
upon the loftiest occasions, but by a hundred examples 
out of the rhymed couplet, in the works of our greatest 
poets. Hear young Milton, practising his organic 
numbers. He is addressing his native language : — 

61 Yet I had rather, if I were to clmse, 
Thy service in some graver subject use, 
Such as may make thee search thy coffers round, 
Before thou clothe my fancy in fit sound ; 
Such where the deep transported mind may soar 
Above the wheeling poles, and at heaven's door 
Look in, and see each blissful deity, 
How he before the thunderous throne doth lie, 
Listening to what the unshorn Apollo sings 
To the touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings 
Immortal nectar to her kingly sire : 
Then passing through the spheres of watchful fire, 
And misty regions of wide air next under, 
And hills of snow, and lofts of piled thunder, 
May tell at length how green-eyed Neptune raves, 
In heaven's defiance mustering all his waves. " 



48 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

So, who would lose the melancholy sounds of the 
words morrow and sorrow, in Spenser's famous descrip- 
tion of the miseries of a court-suitor ? 

* ' Full little knowest thou, that hast not tride, 
"What hell it is in suing long to bide ; 
To lose good dayes, that might be better spent ; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent ; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow; 
To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peeres ; 
To have thy asking, yet waite manie years ; 
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
To eate thy heart with comfortlesse despaires ; 
To fawne, to crouch, to waite, to ride, to runne, 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone." 

I will here observe, by the way, how easy it was 
for these great poets to write in the smooth measure 
of the moderns, and how well they did it when they 
thought fit. Spenser wanted to make out a list of 
his court grievances (for they were his own), and he 
felt that a sort of energetic formality was the best 
shape in which to put it. It would be the better 
itemd in the memory. Shakspeare has written Iago's 
famous banter on good women upon a similar prin- 
ciple. The smooth and reckoning formality of the 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 49 

versification answers to the moral idea intended to be 
conveyed : — 

" Desdemona. heavy ignorance! — thou praisest the worst 
best. But what praise could' st thou bestow on a deserving woman 
indeed ! — one, that in the authority of her merit, did justly put 
on the vouch of very malice itself ? 

' ' Iago. She that was ever fair, and never proud, 

Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud ; 
Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay; 
Fled from her wish, and yet said, c Now I may ;' 
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh, 
Bade her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly ; 
She, that in wisdom never was so frail 
To take the cod's head for the salmon's tail; 
She that would think, and ne'er disclose her mind ; 
See suitors following, and not look behind ; 
She was a wight — if ever such wight were — 
"Des. To do what? 
"Iago. To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer." 

With very little allowance, this is the heroic style 
of versification, such as it prevailed in the last century. 
The concluding line might have been one of Pope's. 
It is in his best manner, both as to sound aud wit. 
The satires of Hall, written in the time of Shakspeare, 
are full of this kind of music, and are the real origina- 
tors of it as a thing continuous, and not the poems of 
Waller; though the smoother subjects of the latter, 
and the care he took to have no roughness at all, 

E 



50 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

set the more immediate example to tlie writers who 
followed him.* 

To return to double rhymes. They are as old in 
our language as Chaucer, whose versification is as 
unlike the crabbed and unintentional stuff it is sup- 
posed to be, as possible, and has never had justice 
done it. The sweet and delicate gravity of its music 
is answerable to the sincerity of the writer's heart. 
Take a specimen out of his character of the " Good 
Priest," including some double rhymes : — 

M Benigne lie was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversite ful patient : 

And swich he was yproved often sithes; (often sithence, or since) 
Full loth were him to cursen for his tithes; 
But rather would he given, out of doubte, 
Unto his pooref parishens aboute, 
Of his offring, and eke of his substance ; 
He coulde, in litel thing, have suffisance. 



* It must have been a slip of the memory (wonderful was it for 
not slipping more !) which induced Sir Walter Scott (in his edition 
of Dryden, vol. xi. p. 100) to class Hall and Donne together as 
inharmonious writers. Hall is the smoothest, as Donne is the 
ruggedest, of all our old satirists. See Warton's remarks upon him 
in the fifth volume of Chalmers's British Poets. 

T The e, which is to be thus retained whenever the writer pleases, 
(and which is perhaps the origin of the gratuitous vowel prefixed to 



A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 51 

" He sette not his benefice to hire, 
And let his sheep accombred in the mire, 
And ran into London, unto Seint Poules, 
To seeken him a chantarie for soules, 
Or with a brotherhood to be withold ; 
But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarrie: 
He was a shepherd, and no mercenaries 

There is one other custom of the old poets, or 
rather of Chaucer, (for I cannot call to mind any- 
other who has made a principle of it as he has done, 
though in the poets before the Restoration, it is occa- 
sionally found among them in the course of their 
paragraphs,) which appears to me very fit for revival; 
and that is, the closing a period or a paragraph with the 
first line of a couplet, and beginning the next with the 
second. Chaucer took the custom from the French 
poets, who have retained it to this day. It surely 
has a fine air, both of conclusion and resumption; as 
though it would leave off when it thought proper, 
knowing how well it could re-commence. Chaucer 
has some fine examples of this break of the couplet in 

verbs and participles, as y-gazing, y-called, star-ypointing, that is 
to say, starre -pointing) is the same as its counterpart still retained 
in French poetry, and rose doubtless from the same root. Thus 
$Qorl is the French pauvre, 

E 2 



52 A STUDY IN VEKSIFICATIOtf. 

his Cambuscan; a story which lingered in the ear of 
Milton. And Milton himself, in a passing way, has 
used the license nobly, in the lines before quoted. 

" Listening to what the unshorn Apollo sings 
To the touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings 
Immortal nectar to her kiogly sire: — 
Then passing through the spheres of watchful fire 
And misty regions of wide air," &c. 

I make no apology for repeating thus much of the 
passage. Fine music provokes repetition.* The fol- 
lowing is one of the passages alluded to in Chaucer. It 
exhibits several examples of the like modulation in its 
progress. 

" At Sarra, in the land of Tartarie, 
Ther dwelt a king that warried Russie, 
Through which ther died many a doughty man : — 
This noble king was cleped Cambuscan, 



* There is a beautiful, and manifestly conscious use of this pause 
in the concluding passage of Mr. Campbell's Pleasures of Hope, 
The poet has intimated the marked pleasure he took in it, by his 
full stop, and the dash by which it is strengthened. 

" Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. — 
When all the sister planets have decayed ; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile." 



A STUDY m VERSIFICATION. 53 

Which in his time was of so great renown, 

That ther was no wher, in no regioun, 

So excellent a lord in alle thing : — 

Him lacked nought that longeth to a king 

As of the sect of which that he was borne ; 

He kept his law to which he was y sworn; 

And thereto he was hardie, wise, and rich, 

And piteous, and just, and alway yliche, (always alike) 

Trewe of his word, benigne and honourable, 

Of his courage as any centre stable ; 

Young, fresh, and strong, in arms desirous, 

As any bachelor of all his house. 

A fair person he was, and fortunate, 

And kept alway, so well, real estate, (royal estate) 

That ther was no wher such another man. 

This noble king, this Tartar, Cambuscan, 
Hadde two sonnes by Elf eta his wife, 

which the eldest sonne hight Algarsife — " &c. 

So in the KnigMs Tale, after the paragraph ending, 

" Ther as this Emelie had her playing. 

Bright was the sonne, and clear the morwening — " 

which, by the way, is a noble re-commencing verse. 
The trisyllable morwening is particularly beautiful 
— much better than morning, or even than morrow- 
ning, which was its next modification. 

It seems to me, that beautiful as are the composi- 
tions which the English language possesses in the 
heroic couplet, it remains for some poet hereafter to 



54 A STUDY IN VERSIFICATION. 

perfect the versification, by making a just compromise 
between the inharmonious freedom of our old poets in 
general, and the regularity of Dryden himself; who, 
noble as his management of it is, beats, after all, too 
much upon the rhyme. It hinders his matter from 
having due pre-eminence before his manner. If any 
one could unite the vigour of Dryden with the ready 
and easy variety of pause in the works of the late 
Mr. Crabbe, and the lovely poetic consciousness in the 
Lamia of Keats, in which the lines seem to take 
pleasure in the progress of their own beauty, like sea- 
nymphs luxuriating through the water, he would be a 
perfect master of rhyming heroic verse. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI; 

OR, FRUITS OF A PARENT'S FALSEHOOD. 



Time, the Fourteenth Century \ The Scene lies first at Ravenna, 
and afterwards at Rimini, 



ARGUMENT. 

This poem is founded on the beautiful episode of Paulo and 
Francesca in the fifth book of the Inferno, where it stands like a 
lily in the mouth of Tartarus. The substance of what Dante tells 
us of the history of the two lovers is to be found at the end of the 
third Canto. The rest has been gathered from the commentators. 
They differ in their accounts of it, but all agree that the lady was, 
in some measure, beguiled into the match with the elder and less 
attractive Malatesta, — Boccaccio says, by having the younger 
brother pointed out to her as her destined husband, as he was 
passing over a square. 

Francesca of Ravenna was the daughter of Guido Novello da 
Polenta, lord of that city, and was married to Giovanni, or, as 
others call him, Launcelot Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, under circum- 
stances that had given her an innocent predilection for Paulo, his 
younger brother. The falsehood thus practised upon her had fatal 
consequences. In the Poem before the reader, the Duke her father, 
a weak, though not ill-disposed man, desirous, on a political account 
of marrying her to the Prince of Rimini, and dreading her objections 
in case she sees him and becomes acquainted with his unamiable 
manners, contrives that he shall send his brother as his proxy, and 



56 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

that the poor girl shall believe the one prince to be the sample of 
the other. Experience undeceives her; Paulo has been told the 
perilous secret of her preference for him ; and in both of them a 
struggle with their sense of duty takes place, for which the insincere 
and selfish morals of others had not prepared them. Giovanni dis- 
covers the secret, from words uttered by his wife in her sleep : he 
forces Paulo to meet him in single combat, and slays him, not 
without sorrow for both, and great indignation against the father : 
Francesca dies of a broken heart; and the two lovers, who had 
come to Ravenna in the midst of a gay cavalcade, are sent back to 
Ravenna, dead, in order that he who first helped to unite them 
with his falsehood, should bury them in one grave for his re- 
pentance. 

CANTO I. 

THE COMING TO FETCH THE BKIDE FROM RAVENNA. 

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May 
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay, 
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen, 
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green ; 
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, 
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, 
And there's a crystal clearness all about; 
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out ; 
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze ; 
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; 
And when you listen, you may hear a coil 
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil ; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 51 

And all the scene in short, — sky, earth, and sea, 
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out 
openly. 

'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing : — 
The birds to the delightful time are singing, 
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, 
As though they shar'd the transport in the town; ' 
While happy faces, striking through the green 
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ; 
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white 
Like, joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light ; 
Come gleaming up, true to the wish'd-for day, 
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the 
bay. 

And well may all who can, conspire to come 
By field, by forest, and the bright sea-foam, 
Where peace returning, and processions rare, 
Princes, and donatives, and faces fair, 
And to crown all, a marriage in May-weather 
Are summonses to bring blithe souls together : 
For on this great glad day, Ravenna's pride, 
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride, 
A bride, to ransom an exhausted land : 
And he, whose victories have obtain' d her hand, 



OS THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Has taken with the dawn, so flics report, 
His promis'd journey to the expecting court, 
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree, 
The bold Giovanni, lord of Rimini. 

Already in the streets the stir grows loud 
Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd. 
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, 
Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends; 
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite, 
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight, 
And armed bands, making important way, 
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday, 
And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run, 
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun. 
With heav'd-out tapestry the windows glow, 
By lovely faces brought, that come and go ; 
Till, the work smooth'd, and all the street attir'd, 
They take their seats, with upward gaze adinir'd; 
Some looking down, some forwards or aside, 
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied, 
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow 
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow ; 
But all with smiles prepard, and garlands green, 
And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the 
scene. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 59 

And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a 
start 
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart. 
A moment's hush succeeds ; and from the walls, 
Firm and at once, a silver answer calls. 
Then press the crowd ; and all who best can strive 
In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive, 
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair, 
Its portico commands the public square; 
For there Duke Guido is to hold his state 
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate : — 
But the full place rejects the invading tide; 
And after a rude heave from side to side, 
With angry faces turn'd, and feet regain'd, 
The peaceful press with order is maintain' d, 
Leaving the foot- ways only for the crowd, 
The lordly space within for the procession proud. 

For in this manner is the square set out : — 
The sides are nearly fill'd all round about, 
And faced with guards, who keep the road entire ; 
While, opposite the ducal seat, a quire 
Of knights and ladies hold one houseless spot, 
Seated in groups upon a grassy plot; 
The seats with boughs are shaded from above 
Of bays and roses, trees of wit and love; 



60 THE STOEY OF KIMINI. 

And in the midst, fresli whistling through the scene, 
A lightsome fountain starts from out the green, 
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run, 
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun. 

There, talking with the ladies, you may see, 
As in some nest of faery poetry, 
Some of the finest warriors of the court, — 
Baptist, and Hugo of the stately port, 
And Guelfo, and Bidolfo, and the flower 
Of j ousters, Galeas of the Sylvan Tower, 
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well 
Repaid the Black Band robbers, Lionel, 
With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and 

Greek, 
And made the close Venetian lower his sails, and 

speak. 

There too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng, 
Stands a young father of Italian song, 
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race ; 
The poet looks out in his earnest face ; 
He with the pheasant's plume — there — bending now; 
Something he speaks around him with a bow, 
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes, 
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes. 



THE STOKY OF RIMINI. 61 

Another start of trumpets, with reply, 
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy 
Opens to right and left its flowing shade, 
And Guido issues with the princely maid, 
And sits ; — the courtiers fall on either side ; 
But every look is fix'd upon the bride, 
"Who pensive comes at first, and hardly hears 
The enormous shout that springs as she appears; 
Till, as she views the countless gaze below, 
And faces that with grateful homage glow, 
A home to leave, and husband yet to see, 
Fade in the warmth of that great charity ; 
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will ; 
But not to bless these thousands, harder still. 
With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears 
Scarce moves her patient mouth, and disappears; 
A smile is underneath, and breaks away, 
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the 
day. 

What need I tell of lovely lips and eyes, 
Sweet natural waist, and bosom's balmy rise, 
The white dress orange-mantled, or the curls 
Bedding an airy coronet of pearls'? 
Let each man fancy, looking down, the brow 
He loves the best, and think he sees it now. 



62 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 



The women dote on the sweet dress; the men 
Dote on the face, and gaze, and gaze again. 

But now comes something to dispute the gaze, 
For a new shout the neighb'ring quarters raise : 
The train are in the town, and gathering near 
With noise of cavalry, and trumpets clear, 
A princely music, unbedinn'd with drums; 
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes; 
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air, 
And now it bursts into the sounding square; 
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice, 
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice. 
Then, with a long-drawn breath, the clangours die; 
The palace trumpets give a last reply, 
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir 
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture, 

The most majestic sound of human will : 

Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still. 

First come the trumpeters, clad all in white 
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright. 
By four and four they ride, on horses grey; 
And as they sit along their easy way, 
To the steed's motion yielding as they go, 
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow. 



THE STOKY OF KIMINX. 63 

The heralds next appear, in vests attir'd 
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd ; 
And then the pursuivants, who wait on these, 
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees : 
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield, 
Clmrg'd with three heads upon a golden field.* 

Twelve ranks of squires come after, twelve in one, 
With forked pennons lifted in the sun, 
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind, 
The bearings of the knights that ride behind. 
Their steeds are ruddy bay; and every squire 
His master's colour shows in his attire. 

These past, and at a lordly distance, come 
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum, 
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride, 
Six in a row, and with a various pride ; 
But all as fresh as fancy could desire, 
All shapes of gallantry on steeds of fire. 

Differing in colours is the knights' array, 
The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay; — 
The horsemen, crimson vested, purple, and white, — 
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight, 
* The arms of the Malatesta family. 



64 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Which, thrown apart, and hanging loose behind, 
Rests on the steed, and ruffles in the wind. 
Their caps of velvet have a lightsome fit, 
Each with a dancing feather sweeping it, 
And on its border hangs a jewel, gleaming; — 
But, what is of the most accomplished seeming, 
All wear memorials of their ladies' love, — 
A ribbon, or a scarf, or silken glove, 
Some tied about the arm, some at the breast, 
Some, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crest. 

A suitable attire the horses show; 
The polish'd bits keep wrangling as they go : 
The ruddy bridles burn against the sun ; 
And the rich horse-cloths, ample every one, 
Which, from the saddle-bow, dress half the 

steed, 
Are some of them all thick with golden thread : 
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue, 
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue ; 
Or purple smearings, with a velvet light, 
Rich from the glary yellow thickening bright; 
Or a spring green, powdered with April posies; 
Or flush vermilion, set with silver roses : 
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress 
The forward march with loitering stateliness. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 65 

With various earnestness the crowd admire 
Horsemen and horse, the motion and the attire. 
Some watch, as they go by, the riders' faces 
Looking composure, and their knightly graces; 
The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed; 
The body curving to the rearing steed ; 
The patting hand, that best persuades the check, 
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck; 
The thigh broad-press' d, the spanning palm upon it, 
And the jerk'd feather flowing in the bonnet. 

Others the horses and their pride explore, 
Their jauntiness behind and strength before; 
The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean; 
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean ; 
The mane hung sleekly; the projecting eye 
That seems half thinking as it glances by; 
The finish'd head, in its compactness free, 
Small, and o'erarching to the lifted knee ; 
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb, 
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam; 
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing, 
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping. 

And now the Princess, pale and with fix'd eye, 
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh, 

F 



3 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Each rank uncovering, as they pass in state, 

Both to the courtly fountain and the gate ; 

And then a second interval succeeds 

Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds 

Milkwhite and unattir'd, Arabian bred, 

Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led : 

They too themselves seem young, and meet the 

sight 
With freshness, after all those colours bright : 
In every limb is seen their faultless race, 
A fire well temperd, and a free-left grace. 
These for a princely present are divin'd, 
And show the giver is not far behind. 

The talk increases now, and now advance, 
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance, 
The pages of the court, in rows of three; 
Of white and crimson is their livery. 
Space after space, — and still the train appear, — 
A fervid whisper fills the general ear — 
Ah — yes— no — 'tis not he— but 'tis the squires 
Who go before him when his pomp requires ; 
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train, 
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain, — 
And now his banner comes, and now his shield 
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field, — 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 67 

And then an interval, — a lordly space ; — 
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place; 
The princess, from a distance, scarcely knows 
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes, 
And, with an impulse and affection free, 
She lays her hand upon her father's knee, 
Who looks upon her with a lab our' d smile, 
Gathering it up into his own the while, 
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how 
To check itself, exclaims, " The prince ! now — now !" 
And on a milk-white courser, like the air, 
A glorious figure springs into the square; 
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout, 
And rolls the echoing walls and peopled roofs 
about. 

Never was nobler finish of fine sight ; 
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light ; 
And many a lovely gazer, with a start, 
Pelt the quick pleasure smite across her heart. 
The princess, who at first could scarcely see, 
Though looking still that way from dignity, 
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round, 
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found. 
And see, — his horse obeys the check unseen; 
And with an air 'twixt ardent and serene, 
f2 



68 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Letting a fall of curls about his brow, 

He takes his cap off with a gallant bow ; 

Then for another and a deafening shout, 

And scarfs are waved, and flowers come fluttering out, 

And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air 

Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair, 

And whisks their garments, and their shining hair. I 

With busy interchange of wonder glows 
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes, — 
But on his shape the gentler sight attends, 
Moves as he passes, — as he bends him, bends, — 
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face, 
And thinks it never saw such manly grace, 
So fine are his bare throat and curls of black, — 
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back — 
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance, 
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance; 
But above all, so meaning is his look, 
As easy to be read as open book; 
And such true gallantry the sex descries 
In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes. 
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be 
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery, 
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care, 
Beaching with stately step at the fine air; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 69 

And now and then, sideling his restless pace, 
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place, 
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill : N 
The princely rider on his back sits still, 
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at 
his will. 

Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood, 
Something perhaps of very gratitude, 
And fifty feelings, undefin'd and new, 
Dance through the bride, and flush her faded hue. 
" Could I but once," she thinks, " securely place 
A trust for the contents on such a case, 
And know the spirit that should fill that dwelling, 
This chance of mine were hardly call'd compelling." 
Just then, the stranger, looking tow'rd the bowers, 
Where half the court sat intermix' d with flowers, 
Beckons a page, and loos'ning from its hold 
A princely jewel with its chain of gold, 
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long, 
To the young father of Italian song : 
The youth, all thanks and bliss, with lowly grace 
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face, 
Looks homage to his great new friend, who bows 
With cordial haste, for now he nears the sovereign's 
house. 



10 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

This charms all sorrow from the destin'd bride; 
She took an interest first, but now a pride ; 
And as the prince comes riding to the place, 
Baring his head, and raising his fine face, 
She meets his full obeisance with an eye 
Of self-permission and sweet gravity ; 
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes, and 
goes by. 



CANTO II. 

THE BRIDE'S JOURNEY TO RIMINI. 

Pass we the followers, and their closing state ; 
The court was enter d by a hinder gate ; 
The duke and princess had retir'd before, 
Join'd by the knights and ladies at the door; 
But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued 
Deep talk among the spreading multitude, 
Who stood in groups, or paced the measur'd street, 
Tilling with earnest hum the noontide heat ; 
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd, 
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast, 
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd, 
Nothing to answer that procession proud ; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 71 

But a blank look, as if no court had been, 
Silence without and secrecy within ; 
And nothing heard by listening at the walls, J 
But now and then a bustling through the halls, 
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals. 

The truth was this : — The bridegroom had not come, 
But sent his brother, proxy in his room. 
A lofty spirit the former was, and proud, 
Little gallant, and had a sort of cloud 
Hanging for ever on his cold address, 
Which he mistook for sovereign manliness. 
But more of this hereafter. Guido knew 
The prince's faults ; and he was conscious too, 
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd 
To do her duty, where appeal was barr'd, 
She had a sense of marriage, just and free, 
And where the match look'd ill for harmony, 
Might pause with firmness, and refuse to strike 
A chord her own sweet music so unlike. 
The old man therefore, kind enough at heart, 
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art, 
And little form'd for sentiments like these, 
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties, 
Had thought at once to gratify the pride 
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride, 



72 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

By telling him, that if, as he had heard, 

Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word, 

And proxies might be found, though not preferr'd; 

Only the duke thus farther must presume, 

For both their sakes, — that still a prince must come. 

The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd, 

To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd; 

And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought 

Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought, 

Dispatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a creature 

Form'd in the very poetry of nature, 

The effect was perfect, and the future wife 

Caught in the elaborate snare, perhaps for life. 

One shock there was, however, to sustain, 
Which nigh had rous'd her whole sweet wits again. 
She saw, when all were housed, in Guido's face 
A look of leisurely surprise take place ; 
A little whispering follow'd for a while, 
And then 'twas told her, with an easy smile, 
That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin, 
Had been delay'd by something unforeseen, 
But rather than defer his day of bliss 
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss) 
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead; 
" Who," said old Guido, with a nodding head, 



THE STOEY OF RIMINI. 73 

" May well be said to represent his brother, 
For when you see the one, yon know the other." 

By this time Paulo join'd them where they stood, 
And seeing her in some uneasy mood, 
Chang' d the mere cold respects his brother sent 
To such a strain of cordial compliment, 
And paid them with an air so frank and bright, 
As to a friend whose worth is felt at sight, 
That air in short which sets you at your ease, 
Without implying your perplexities, 
That what with the surprise in every way, 
The hurry of the time, the appointed day, 
The very shame, which now appeared increas'd. 
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd, 
And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks, 
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books, 
And help'd her genial fancy to conclude 
That fruit of such a stock must all be good, 
She knew no longer how she could oppose : 
Quick were the marriage-rites; and at the close, 
The proxy, turning midst the general hush, 
Kiss'd her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush. 

At last, about the vesper hour, a score 
Of trumpets issued from the palace door, 



74 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

The banners of their brass with favours tied, 
And with a blast proclaim'd the wedded bride. 
But not a word the sullen silence broke, 
Till something of a gift the herald spoke, 
And with a bag of money issuing out, 
Scatterd the ready harvest round about; 
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry, 
And largess ! largess ! claps against the sky, 
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Bimini. 

The rest however still were looking on, 
Careless and mute, and scarce the noise was gone, 
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd, 
Again the morning visitors appear'd. 
The prince was in his place ; and in a car, 
Before him, glistening like a farewell star, 
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes; 
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries ; 
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd 
At the dull day, and some the whole perplex'd, 
And all great pity thought it to divide 
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride. 
Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event 
Had cross'd and sear'd with burning wonderment, 
Could scarce, at times, a starting cry forbear 
At leaving her own home and native air; 



THE STOEY OF RIMINI. 75 

Till passing now the limits of the town, 
And on the last few gazers looking down, 
She saw by the road-side an aged throng, 
Who, wanting power to bustle with the strong, 
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go, 
And gather'd there, an unconcerted show; 
Bending they stood with their old foreheads bare, 
And the winds finger d with their reverend hair. 
Farewell ! farewell, my friends ! she would have 

cried, 
But in her throat the leaping accents died, 
And, waving with her hand a vain adieu, 
She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew, 
And let the kindly tears their own good course 

pursue. 

It was a lovely evening, fit to close 
A lovely day, and brilliant in repose. 
Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air; 
The soften'd breeze came smoothing here and there ; 
And every tree, in passing, one by one, 
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun : 
For leafy was the road, with tail array, 
On either side, of mulberry and bay, 
And distant snatches of blue hills between ; 
And there the alder was with its bright green, 



76 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot, 
That like a feather waves from head to foot, 
With, ever and anon, majestic pines; 
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines 
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines. 

Nor long the princess kept her from the view 
Of those dear scenes, as back from sight they flew : 
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears, 
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears, 
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound 
Of hoofs, thick reckoning, and the wheel's moist 

round, 
A call of " Slower !" from the farther part 
Of the check'd riders woke her with a start; 
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare, 
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air. 

'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed, 
And such, as with a bold and playful speed 
Another time they would have scorn'd to measure;' 
But now they take with them a lovely treasure, 
And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure. 

And now with thicker shades the pines appear; 
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. ii 

And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil, 
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil. 

Here first the silence of the country seems 
To come about her with its listening dreams, 
And full of anxious thoughts, half freed from pain, 
In downward musing she relaps'd again, 
Leaving the others who had pass'd that way 
In careless spirits of the early day, 
To look about, and mark the reverend scene, 
For awful tales renown' d, and everlasting green. 

A heavy spot the forest looks at first, 
To one grim shade condemn' d, and sandy thirst, 
Chequer'd with thorns, with thistles run to seed, 
Or plashy pools, half cover'd with green weed, 
About whose sides the swarming insects fry 
In the hot sun, a noisome company. 
But entering more and more, they quit the sand 
At once, and strike upon a grassy land, 
From which the trees, as from a carpet, rise 
In knolls and clumps, with rich varieties. 
A moment's trouble find the knights to rein 
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again, 
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large 
To scour the space and give the winds a charge, 



78 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 



Or pulling tight the bridles, as they pass, 
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass. 
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade, 
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade, 
Some baring to the cool their placid brows, 
Some looking upward through the glimmering 

boughs, 
Or peering grave through inward-opening places, 
And half prepar'd for glimpse of shadowy faces. 
For in these woods it is, and hereabouts, 
As not a soul in all Romania doubts, 
That the proud dame, who drove the knight to death, 
On stated days, resuming mortal breath, 
Naked, and crying " Mercy !" with wild face, 
Is doom'd to fly him, as he spurs in chase, 
And have her heart, through pitiless wide wounds, 
Torn from her shrieking side, to feed his hounds.* 

Various the trees and passing foliage here, — 
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper, 
With briony between in trails of white, 
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light, 
And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark, 
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark, 

* See the story in the Decameron, Book V., Tale viii. ; or in 
Dryden's fine version of it, entitled Theodore and Honoria, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 79 

And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall, 
In lordly right, predominant o'er all. 

Much they admire that old religious tree, 
"With its new leaves now burning goldenly, — 
A tree that seems as it should only grow 
Where lonesome winds or solemn organs blow. 
At noisy intervals, the living cloud 
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud 
Like a wild people, when invaders come ; 
Then all again, but for themselves, seems dumb, 
Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea, 
Or startled gull up-screaming towards the sea : 
But what they mostly hear, is still the sound 
Of their own pomp and progress o'er the ground ; 
And, birds except, they scarce meet living thing, 
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering, 
Or a few cattle, looking up aslant 
With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant; 
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent, 
Passing with half indifferent wonderment, 
Yet turning, at the last, to look once more ; 
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before. 

So ride they pleas' d, — till now the couching sun 
Levels his final look through shadows dun; 



80 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face, 
Seems come to look into the silvering place. 
Then first the bride waked up, for then was heard, 
Sole voice, the poet's and the lover's bird, 
Preluding first, as though the sounds were cast 
For the dear leaves about her, till at last 
With floods of rapture, in a perfect shower, 
She vents her heart on the delicious hour. 
Lightly the horsemen go, as if they'd ride 
A velvet path, and hear no voice beside : 
A placid hope assures the breath-suspending bride., 



So ride they in delight through beam and shade ; — 
Till many a rill now pass'd, and many a glade, 
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon 
Emerge into the full and day-like moon; 
Chilling it seems ; and pushing steed on steed, 
They start them freshly with a homeward speed. 
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots. 
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember' d spots, 
And turning last a sudden corner, see 
The moon-lit towers of slumbering Rimini. 
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below 
With a long gleam ; and nearer as they go, 
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright, 
Sleeping along with face against the light. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 81 

A hollow trample now, — a fall of chains, — 
The bride has enter'd, — not a voice remains; — 
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains. 



CANTO III. 



THE FATAL PASSION". 



Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss, 
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss ? 
Why mar the face of beauty, and disclose 
The weeping days that with the morning rose, 
And bring the bitter disappointment in, — 
The holy cheat, the virtue-binding sin, — 
The shock, that told this lovely, trusting heart, 
That she had given, beyond all power to part, 
Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother, 
Possession (oh, the misery!) to another? 

Some likeness was there 'twixt the two, — an air 
At times, a cheek, a colour of the hair, 
A tone, when speaking of indifferent things ; 
Nor, by the scale of common measurings, 
Would you say more perhaps, than that the one 
Was more robust, the other finelier spunj 

G 



82 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

That of the two, Giovanni was the graver, 
Paulo the livelier, and the more in favour. 

Pride in his warlike fame made some prefer 
Giovanni's countenance as the martialler; 
And 'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye 
Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high, 
An eagle nose and a determined lip, 
Were the best marks of manly soldiership. 
Paulo's was fashion'd in a different mould, 
And to a finer end : for though 'twas bold, 
When boldness was requir'd, and could put on 
A glowing frown as if an angel shone, 
Yet there was nothing in it one might call 
A stamp exclusive or professional, — 
No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready, - 
No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady, — 
No soldier's, for its power was all of mind, 
Too true for violence, and too refin'd. 
The very nose, lightly though firmly wrought, 
Refinement show'd; the brow, clear-spirited 

thought ; 
Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye, 
And round his mouth was sensibility : — 
It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show 
How far the genuine flesh and blood could go ;— 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 83 



A morning glass of unaffected nature, — 
Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature, — 
The visage of a glorious human creature. I 



If any points there were, at which they came 
Nearer together, 'twas in knightly fame, 
And all accomplishments that art might know, — 
Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow, 
The rush together in the bright-eyed list, 
Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely miss'd, 
And the decision of still knottier points, 
With knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints, — 
Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got, 
And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.* 
But leave we knighthood to the former part ; 
The tale I tell is of the human heart. 

The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride 
Too quickly found, was an ill-temper' d pride. 
Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please, 
Punctual and right in common offices, 

* The two famous knights of the Round Table, great huntsmen, 
and therefore great carvers. Boars and peacocks, served up whole, 
the latter with the feathers on, were eminent dishes with the 
knights of old, and must have called forth all the profundity of this 
accomplishment. 



84 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

He lost the sight of conduct's only worth, 

The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth, 

And on the strength of virtues of small weight, 

Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great. 

He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours; — 

He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours, 

And then, if pleas' d to cheer himself a space, 

Look for the immediate rapture in your face, 

And wonder that a cloud could still be there, 

How small soever, when his own was fair. 

Yet such is conscience, — so designed to keep 

Stern, central watch, though all things else may sleep, 

And so much knowledge of one's self can lie 

Cored in thy heart, poor Self-complacency, 

That no suspicion would have touch'd him more, 

Than that of wanting on the generous score : 

He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scorn, 

Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn, 

In short, ill-temper d for a week to come, 

And all to strike that desperate error dumb. 

Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit, 

But not the patience, nor the genial spirit; 

And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect, 

A sort of fierce demand on your respect, 

Which, if assisted by his high degree, 

It gave him in some eyes a dignity, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 85 

And struck a meaner deference in the many, 
Left him at last unloveable with any. 

From this complexion in the reigning brother, 
His younger birth in part had saved the other. 
Born to a homage less gratuitous, 
He learn'd to win a nobler for his house ; 
And both from habit and a genial heart, 
Without much trouble of the reasoning art, 
Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good, — 
To be, and make, as happy as he could. 
Not that he saw, or thought he saw, beyond 
His general age, and could not be as fond 
Of wars and creeds as any of his race, — 
But most he lov'd a happy human face; 
And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown, 
He struck the looks he wish'd for, with his 

own. 
So what but service leap'd where'er he went ! 
Was there a tilt-day or a tournament, — 
For welcome grace there rode not such another, 
]STor yet for strength, except his lordly brother, 
Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance, 
Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France, 
Or summer party to the greenwood shade, 
With lutes prepar'd, and cloth on herbage laid, 



86 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And ladies' laughter coming through the air, — 
He was the readiest and the blithest there; 
And made the time so exquisitely pass 
With stories told with elbow on the grass, 
Or touch'd the music in his turn so finely, 
That all he did, they thought, was done divinely. 

The lovely stranger could not fail to see 
Too soon this difference, more especially 
As her consent, too lightly now, she thought, 
With hopes as different had been strangely 

bought ; 
And many a time the pain of that neglect 
Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect : 
But since the ill was cureless, she applied 
With busy virtue to resume her pride, 
Hoping to value her submissive heart 
On playing well a patriot daughter's part, 
And trying new-found duties to prefer 
To what a father might have owed to her. 
The very day too when her first surprise 
Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes 
On finding, by his care, her private room 
Furnish' d, like magic, from her own at home; 
The very books and all transported there, 
The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair, 



THE STOEY OF RIMINI. 87 

The lute, the glass that told the shedding hours, 
The little vase of silver for the flowers, 
The frame for broidering, with a piece half done, 
And the white falcon, basking in the sun, 
Who, when he saw her, sidled on his stand, 
And twined his neck against her loving hand. 
But what had touch'd her nearest, was the 

thought, 
That if 'twere destin'd for her to be brought 
To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be 
Giovanni's too, and his her family : — 
He seem'd already father of her child, 
And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she 

smil'cL 
Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red 
In either downward cheek startle and spread, 
To think that he, who was to have such part 
In joys like these, had never shard her heart; 
But back she chas'd it with a sigh austere; 
And did she chance, at times like these, to hear 
Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more, 
And with a double smile open the door, 
And hope his day had worn a happy face ; ^ 

Ask how his soldiers pleas'd him, or the chase, 
Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign 



88 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye 
Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly ; 
Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow 
To accept attentions, flattering to bestow; 
But then meantime he took no generous pains, 
By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains; 
He enter'd not, in turn, in her delights, 
Her books, her flowers, her love of all sweet sights ; 
ISTay, scarcely her sweet singing minded he, 
Unless his pride was rous'd by company; 
Or when to please him, after martial play, 
She strain'd her lute to some old fiery lay 
Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras, 
Or Byan's cloak, or how by the red grass 
In battle you might know where Bichard was.* 

Yet all the while, no doubt, however stern 
Or cold at times, he thought he lov'd in turn, 
And that the joy he took in her sweet ways, 
The pride he felt when she excited praise, 
In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure, 
Was thanks enough, and passion beyond measure. 

* " Sir Ferumbras" was a knight of Romance. The cloak of 
King Ryan, or Ryence, was said to be made of the beards of his 
royal brethren, whom he had conquered. Richard is Richard 
Cceur de Lion, a terrible knight de facto as well as in fable. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 89 

She, liad she lov'd him, might have thought so too, 
For what will love not think its idol's due, 
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness, 
Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress? 
But ill prepar'd was she, in her hard lot, 
To fancy merit where she found it not, — 
She, who had been beguil'd, — she, who was made 
Within a gentle bosom to be laid, — 
To bless and to be bless' d, — to be heart-bare 
To one who found his better'd likeness there, — 
To think for ever with him, like a bride, — 
To haunt his eye, like grace personified, — 
To double his delight, to share his sorrow, 
And like a morning beam, wake to him every 
morrow. 

Paulo, meantime, who ever since the day 
He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way, 
Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces 
Ey which to judge all other forms and faces, 
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare, 
Which gave her up, that evening, to his care. 
Some babbler, may be, of old Guido's court, 
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport, 
But to his heart the fatal flattery went, 
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent, 



90 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And ran back, in his mind, with sudden spring, 
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything, 
E'en what before had seemed indifference, 
And read them over in another sense. 
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain, 
To think how fanciful he was, and vain ; 
And with half angry, half regretful sigh, 
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye, 
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look 
About him for his falcon or his book, 
Scorning that ever he should entertain 
One thought that in the end might give his brother 
pain. 

This start, however, came so often round, 
So often fell he in deep thought, and found 
Occasion to renew his carelessness, 
Yet every time the power grown less and less, 
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclin'd, 
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd; 
And merely, as he thought, to make the best 
Of what by force would twine about his breast, 
Began to bend down his admiring eyes 
On all her touching looks and qualities, 
Turning their shapely sweetness every way, 
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 91 

And she became companion of his thought ; 
Silence her gentleness before him brought, 
Society her sense, reading her books, 
Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks, 
Which sometimes seem'd, when he sat fix'd awhile, 
To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile : 
And then he would suppose her all his own, 
Himself the bridegroom, her his right alone, 
And dote on the sweet gaze, till ending with a groan 

Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain 
About his fancy, till it thrill'd again; 
And if his brother's image, less and less, 
Startled him up from his new idleness, 
'Twas not, — he fancied, — that he reason' d worse, 
Or felt less scorn of wrong, but the reverse. 
That one should think of injuring another, 
Or trenching on his peace, — this, too, a brother, — 
And all from selfishness and pure weak will, 
To him seem'd marvellous and impossible. 
'Tis true, thought he, one being more there was, 
Who might meantime have weary hours to pass, — 
One weaker too to bear them, — and for whom? — 
No matter; — wishing could reverse no doom; 
And so he sigh'd and smil'd, as if one thought 
Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught. 



D2 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Yet if she lov'd him, common gratitude, 
If not, a sense of what was fair and good, 
Besides his new relationship and right, 
Would make him wish to please her all he might; 
And as to thinking, — where could be the harm, 
Provided he kept close the secret charm 1 ? 
He wish'd not to himself another's blessing, 
But then he might console for not possessing; 
And glorious things there were, which but to see 
And not admire, was mere stupidity : 
He might as well object to his own eyes 
For loving to behold the fields and skies, 
His neighbour's grove, or story-painted hall; 
'Twas but the taste for what was natural ; 
Only his fav'rite thought was loveliest of them all. 

Concluding thus, and happier that he knew 
His ground so well, near and more near he drew; 
And sanction' d by his brother's manner, spent 
Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant. 
He read with her, he rode, he train'd her hawk, 
He spent still evenings in delightful talk, 
While she sat busy at her broidery frame; 
Or touch'd the lute with her, and when they came 
To some fine part, prepar'd her for the pleasure, 
And then with double smile stole on the measure. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 93 

Then at the tournament, — who there but she 
Made him more gallant still than formerly, 
Couch o'er his tighten'd lance with double force, 
Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse, 
And franklier then than ever, midst the shout 
And dancing trumpets ride, uncover' d, round 

about? 
His brother only, more than hitherto, 
He would avoid, or sooner let subdue, 
Partly from something strange unfelt before, 
Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore 
A knot his bride had worked him, green and gold; — 
"For in all things with nature did she hold, 
And while 'twas being work'd, her fancy was 
Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass. 

Francesca from herself but ill could hide 
What pleasure now was added to her side, — 
How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on 
Thus link'd in white and loving unison, 
And how the chair he sat in, and the room, 
Began to look, when he had fail'd to come. 
But as she better knew the cause than he, 
She seem'd to have the more necessity 
For struggling hard, and rousing all her pride ; 
And so she did at first ; she even tried 



94 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

To feel a sort of anger at his care ; 
But these extremes brought but a kind despair 
And then she only spoke more sweetly to him, 
And found her failing eyes give looks that melted 
through him. 

Giovanni too, who felt relievd indeed 
To see another to his place succeed, 
Or rather filling up some trifling hours, 
Better spent elsewhere, and beneath his powers, 
Left the new tie to strengthen day by day, 
Talk'd less and less, and longer kept away, 
Secure in his self-love and sense of right, 
That he was welcome most, come when he might. 
And doubtless, they, in their still finer sense, 
With added care repaid this confidence, 
Turning their thoughts from his abuse of it, 
To what on their own parts was graceful and was fit. 

Ah now, ye gentle pair, — now think awhile, 
Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile ; 
Now, while your generous hearts have not been 

griev'd 
Perhaps with something not to be retriev'd, 
And ye have in ye still the power of gladness, 
From self-resentment free, and recollected madness ! 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 95 

So did they think; — but partly from delay, 
Partly from fancied ignorance of the way, 
But most from feeling the bare thought require 
Fresh mutual comfort, dangerous to desire, 
They scarcely tried to see each other less, 
And did but meet with deeper tenderness, . 
Living, from day to day, as they were used, 
Only with graver thoughts, and smiles reduced, 
And sighs more frequent, which, when one would 

heave, 
The other long'd to start up and receive. 
For whether some suspicion now had cross'd 
Giovanni's mind, or whether he had lost 
More of his temper lately, he would treat 
His wife with petty scorns, and starts of heat, 
And, to his own omissions proudly blind, 
O'erlook the pains she took to make him kind, 
And yet be angry, if he thought them less; 
He found reproaches in her meek distress, 
Forcing her silent tears, and then resenting, 
Then almost angrier grown from half repenting, 
And hinting at bhe last, that some there were 
Better perhaps than he, and tastefuller, 
And these, for what he knew, — he little cared, — 
Might please her, and be pleas'd, though he 

despair'd. 



96 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Then would he quit the room, and half disdain 
His tongue for yielding to so harsh a strain, 
And venting thus his temper on a woman; 
Yet not the more for that changed he in common, 
Or took more pains to please her, and be near : — 
What ! should he truckle to a woman's tear ] 

At times like these the princess tried to shun 
The face of Paulo as too kind a one ; 
And shutting up her tears with final sigh, 
Would walk into the air, and see the sky, 
And feel about her all the garden green, 
And hear the birds that shot the covert boughs 
between. 

A noble range it was, of many a rood, 
Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood : 
Indeed the whole was leafy ; and it had 
A winding stream about it, clear and glad, 
That danced from shade to shade, and on its 

way 
Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. 
There was the pouting rose, both red and white, 
The flamy heart's-ease, flush' d with purple light, 
Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box, 
Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 97 

The lacly lily, looking gently down, 
Pure lavender, to lay in bridal gown, 
The daisy, lovely on both sides, — in short, 
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, 
With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between 
Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine, 
With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit, 
And look as if they shade a golden fruit ; 
And 'midst the flowers, turfd round beneath a 

shade 
Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd, 
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, 
Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with 

showering light. 
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed 
Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; 
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk, 
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk; 
And now pursued the stream, and as you trod 
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, 
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet, 
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet ; 
And then perhaps you enter'd upon shades, 
Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, 
Through which the distant palace, now and then, 
Looked lordly forth with many-window'd ken 
H 



98 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

A land of trees, which reaching round aboutj — 
In shady blessing stretch' d their old arms out, 
With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks 
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks, 
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer, 
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. 
And all about, the birds kept leafy house, 
And sung and darted in and out the boughs; 
And all about, a lovely sky of blue 
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd 

through; 
And here and there, in every part, were seats, 
Some in the open walks, some in retreats 
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye 
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, — 
Places of nestling green, for poets made, 
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, 
The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, 
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light. 

But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway, 
And form'd of both, the loveliest j)ortion lay, 
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground : — 
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound 
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees, 
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 99 

Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, 
(Yon saw it not, bnt heard) there gush'd a rill, 
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said 
Something eternal to that happy shade. 
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers 
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron 

bowers ; 
And in the midst of all, cluster' d with bay 
And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day, 
Lurk'd a pavilion, — a delicious sight, — 
Small, marble, well-proportion' d, mellowy white, 
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more, — 
And a young orange either side the door. 
The door was to the wood, forward and square, 
The rest was domed at top, and circular; 
And through the dome the only light came in, 
Tinged, as it enter d, with the vine-leaves thin. 

It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill, 
Spar d from the rage of war, and perfect still ; 
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands, 
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands, — 
Alcina, or Morgana, — who from fights 
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights, 
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses, 
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses. 
h2 



100 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told, 
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old; 
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice 
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes, 
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet, 
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet : 
And round about, ran, on a line with this 
In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss, 
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs them- 
selves ; 
Some by the water side on bowery shelves 
Leaning at will,— some in the water sporting 
With sides half swelling forth, and looks of courting,— 
Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain 
Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again,— 
Some tying up their long moist hair,— some sleeping 
Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping, — 
Or, sidelong- eyed, pretending not to see, 
The latter in the brakes come creepingly, 
While from their careless urns, lying aside 
In the long grass, the straggling waters slide. 
Never, be sure, before or since was seen 
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green. 

All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot, 
Prancesca lov'd, but most of all this spot. 



THE STOItY OF KIMINI. 101 

Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went 

About the grounds, to this at last she bent : 

Here she had brought a lute and a few books; 

Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks, 

Thanking at heart the sunshine and the leaves, 

The vernal rain-drops counting from the eaves, 

And all that promising, calm smile we see 

In nature's face, when we look patiently. 

Then would she think of heaven • and you might hear 

Sometimes, when every thing was hush'd and clear, 

Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging, 

Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin. 

The gardeners and the rest, who serv'd the place, 

And blest whenever they beheld her face, 

Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover' d, 

And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd. 

Oh weak old man ! Love, saintliest life, and she, 
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee. 

One day, — 'twas on an early autumn noon, 
When the cicale* cease to mar the tune 
Of birds and brooks, and morning work has done 
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun, 

* The cicala (cicale in the plural, — the cicada of Virgil and 
tettix of Anacreon) might he called the tree-crichet, from the noise 
-s\ Inch it makes, if science warranted the term. 



102 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

The princess came to her accustom' d bower 
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour, 
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares 
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs, 
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light 
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight 
Of closing wood seen through the opening door, \ 
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er, 
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries 
more. 

She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake, 
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache; 
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease, 
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees. 
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day, 
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away, — 
Too much reliev'd — too much inclin'd to draw 
A careless joy from every thing she saw, 
And looking round her with a new-born eye, 
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh, 
To taste of nature, primitive and free, 
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty. 

Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd, 
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd ; 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 103 

And turning from the trees her thoughtful look, 
She reach'd o'er-head, and took her down a book, 
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air, 
As though she had been rapt since morning 
there. 

'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance, 
That like a trumpet made the spirits dance, 
Yet had a softer note that shook still more; — 
She had begun it but the day before, 
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad, 
How old King Ban was spoil' d of all he had 
But one fair castle : how one summer's day 
With his fair queen and child he went away 
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance ; 
How reaching by himself a hill at distance 
He turn'd to give his castle a last look, 
And saw its far white face : and how a smoke, 
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth, 
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth, 
And his fair castle, burning to the ground, 
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound, 
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart 
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart. 
Then read she of the queen with her young child, 
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild, 



104 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 



And how in journeying on in her despair, 
She reach'd a lake and met a lady there, 
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet 
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet 
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake, 
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake. 
The mother's feelings we as well may pass : — 
The fairy of the place that lady was, 
And Launcelot (so the boy was call'd) became 
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame 
He went to Arthurs court, and play'd his part 
So rarely, and display d so frank a heart, 
That what with all his charms of look and limb, 
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him : 
And here, such interest in the tale she took, 
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book. 

Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er 
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before, 
The other propping her white brow, and 

throwing 
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing. 
So sat she fix'd ; and so observ'd was she 
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly, — 
Paulo, — who from a window seeing her 
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 105 

Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day, 
His usual efforts vain to keep away. 

" May I come in?" said he : — it made her start, — 
That smiling voice ; — she colour' d, press'd her heart 
A moment, as for breath, and then with free 
And usual tone said, " O yes, — certainly." 

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, 
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, 
An air of something quite serene and sure, 
As if to seem so, were to be, secure : 
"With, this the lovers met, with this they spoke, 
With this they sat down to the self-same book, 
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd 
With one permitted arm her lovely waist; 
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, 
Came with a touch together, thrillingly; 
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said, 
And every lingering page grew longer as they 
read. 

As thus they sat, and felt, with leaps of heart, 
Their colour change, they came upon the part 
W^here fond Geneura, with her flame long nursfc, 
Smil'd upon Launcelot when he kiss'd her first : — 



106 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

That touch, at last, through every fibre slid; 
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did, 
Only he felt he could no more dissemble, 
And in his arms she wept, all in a tremble. 

Oh thou unhappy father ! Woes in store 
Await thy craft. — That day they read no more. 



CANTO IV. 

HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA. 

It has surpris'd me often, as I write, 
That I, who have of late known small delight, 
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make 
My very solace of distress partake ; 
Now, too, while rains autumnal, as I sing, 
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing, 
And all the climate presses on my sense;* 
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence, 

* The greater portion of this poem was written in the prison to 
which the author, then editor of The Examiner, was condemned for 
some severe remarks on the Prince Regent, at a time when freedom 
of speech was not allowed to the press as abundantly and wisely 
as it is now ; and the state of his health was such as to render con- 
finement more than ordinarily injurious. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 107 

And leafy dreams affords me, and a feeling 

Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing ; 

And shows me, more than what it first design' d, 

How little upon earth our home we find, 

Or close th' intended course of erring humankind. 

Sorrow, they say, to one with true-touch' d ear, 
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere, 
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be, 
Distils the next note more deliciously. 
Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard, 
A joy too often and too long deferr'd. 
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here; 
And good meantime comes best from many a tear. 
Tales like the present, of a real woe, 
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow : 
The woes were few, were brief, have long been 

past; 
The warnings they bequeath spread wide and last. 
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames 
Make them unhappiest of poetic names, 
What are they, if they know their calling high, 
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky 1 
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen, 
Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and 

green ? 



108 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

A month has pass'd; — how pass'd, remains 
unknown ; — 
But never now, companion' d or alone, 
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower. 
Paulo did once, arm'd with the sterner power 
Of a man's grief. He saw it ; but how look'd 
The bow'r at him? His presence felt rebuk'd. 
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart, 
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art, 
Had all been a mere dream, or at the best 
A vain negation that could stand no test, 
And that on waking from his idle fit, "\ 

He found himself (how could he think of it 1) 
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite. J 

That thought before had griev'd him; but the 
pain 
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again. 
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick, 
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick; 
And pale he stood, and seem'd to burst all o'er 
Into moist anguish never felt before, 
And with a dreadful certainty to know 
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe. 
Francesca too, — the being made to bless, — 
Destin'd by him to the same wretchedness, — 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 109 

It seem'd as if such whelming thoughts must find 

Some props for them, or he should lose his mind. 

And find he did, not what the worse disease 

Of want of charity calls sophistries, — 

Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain, — 

But humble guesses, helping to sustain. 

He thought, with quick philosophy, of things 

Rarely found out except through suffering?, — 

Of habit, circumstance, design, degree, 

Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity; 

And these, although they push' d down, as they rose, 

His self-respect, and all those morning shows 

Of true and perfect, which his youth had built, 

Push'd with them too the worst of others' guilt ; 

And furnish'd him, at least, with something kind, 

On which to lean a sad and startled mind : 

Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread 

Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread 

From time to time in gladness o'er his face, 

That she he lov'd could have done nothing base, 

Help'd to restore him to his usual life, 

Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife; 

And he would rise betimes, day after day, 

And mount his favourite horse, and ride away 

Miles in the country, looking round about, 

As he glode by, to force his thoughts without 



110 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And when he found it vain, would pierce the shade 
Of some enwooded field or closer glade, 
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh, 
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye, 
And almost envy the poor beast, that went 
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content. 
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood, 
And kept it livelier than inaction could ; 
And thus he earn'd for his thought- working head 
The power of sleeping when he went to bed, 
And was enabled still to wear away 
That task of loaded hearts, another day. 

But she, the gentler frame, — the shaken flower, — 
The daughter, sacrified in evil hour, — 
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she, 
Wife that still was, and mother that might be, — 
What could she do, unable thus to keep 
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep, 
For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame, 
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came, 
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow 
She might be still and senseless till the morrow ! 

And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise ! 
How would she open her despairing eyes, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. Ill 

And from the sense of the long lingering day, 
Rushing upon her, almost turn away, 
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again ! 
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain, 
She would get up in haste, and try to pass 
The time in patience, wretched as it was ; 
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight, 
Would seem a charm to which she had no right, 
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears, 
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears. 
Old comforts now were not at her command : 
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand ; 
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light, 
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night ; 
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound ; 
And did she hear but the remotest sound 
Of song or instrument about the place, 
She hid with both her hands her streaming face. 
But worse to her than all (and oh ! thought she, 
That ever, ever, such a worse should be !) 
The sight of infant was, or child at play ; 
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray, 
That heaven would take her, if it pleas' d, away. 

Meantime her lord, who by her long distress 
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness, 



112 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Which, to his sore amaze, did but appear 
To vex her more than when he was severe, 
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see 
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree, 
And in all else she look'd and said, and all 
His brother did, who now in bower or hall 
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face, — 
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace. 
What a convulsion was the first belief! 
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief, 
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain 
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain, 
With mad impatience to surmount the blow 
In some retributive and bloody woe, — 
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view 
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew, 
Where he had waked and found the dreams of 
madmen true. 



If any lingering hope that he was wrong, 
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so 

long. 
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay, 
Considering what to do the approaching day, 
He heard his wife say something in her sleep : — 
He shook, and listen'd ; — she began to weep, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 113 

And moaning louder, seem'd to shake her head, 
Till all at once articulate, she said, 
" He loves his brother yet. — Dear heaven, 'twas I — " 
Then lower voiced — " Only — do let me die." 

With the worst impulse of his whole fierce life 
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife : 
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more. 
He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door 
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air; — 
His squire awak'd attends ; and they repair, 
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room : — 
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come. 

The brothers meet, — Giovanni scarce in breath, 
Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as pale as death. 
The husband, motioning while turning round, 
To lead the way, said, " To the tilting ground." 
" There, brother," answer'd Paulo, while despair 
Rush'd on his face. " Yes, brother" cried he, " there." 
The word smote crushingly; and paler still, 
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his 
will. 

Paulo's sad squire has fetch'd another sword, 
And down the stairs they bend without a word ; 
I 



114 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Then issue forth in the moist-striking air, 

And towards the tilt-yard cross a planted square. 

'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill ; 
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still, 
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away 
Appear d the streaky fingers of the day. 
An opening in the trees took Paulo's eye, 
As mute his brother and himself went by : 
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound, 
That screen'd Francesca 1 s favourite spot of ground : 
Massy and dark in the clear twilight stood, 
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood; 
And through the bowering arch, which led inside, 
He almost fancied once, that he descried 
A marble gleam, where the £>avilion lay — 
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way. 

Arriv'd, and the two squires withdrawn apart, 
The prince spoke low, as with a labouring heart, 
And said, " Before you answer what you can, 
" I wish to tell you, as a gentleman, 
" That what you may confess," (and as he spoke 
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,) 
" Will implicate no person known to you, 
u More than disquiet in its sleep may do." 



THE STORY OF BIMINX 115 

Paulo's heart bled; lie waved his hand, and bent 
His head a little in acknowledgment. 
" Say then, sir, if you can," continued he, 
" One word will do — you have not injur cl me : 
" Tell me but so, and I shall bear the pain 
" Of having asked a question I disdain ; — 
" But utter nothing, if not that one word ; 
•'• And meet me this." — He stopp'd, and drew his 
sword. 

Paulo seem'd firmer grown from his despair; 
He drew a little back; and with the air 
Of one who would do well, not from a right 
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite, 
" I am," said he, " I know, — 'twas not so ever — 
" But fight for it ! and with a brother ! Never." 

"How!" with uplifted voice, exclaim'd the other; 
"The vile pretence! who ask'd you — with a 

brother 1 
" Brother ! wretch ! O traitor to the name! 
" Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim. 
•'■^Yhat! wound it deepest] strike me to the core, 
u Me, and the hopes which I can have no more, 
" And then, as never brother of mine could, 
i; Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?" 
i2 



116 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

" It is not so/' cried Paulo, " 'tis not so : 
" But I would save you from a further woe." 

" A further woe, recreant !" retorted he : 
"What woe? what further 1 ? yes, one still may be: 
" Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace, 
" Of seeing one of an illustrious race 
" Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law, 
" And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw." 

" Brother, dear brother !" Paulo cried, " nay, nay, 
" I'll use the word no more ; — but peace, I pray ! 
" You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet !" 
" 'Tis false !" exclaim'd the prince ; " 'tis a retreat 
" To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue, 
" And fear the grave you bring a woman to." 

A sudden start, yet not of pride or pain, 
Paulo here gave ;' he seem'd to rise again ; 
And taking off his cap without a word, 
He drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword, 
Looking to heaven ; — then with a steady brow, 
Mild, yet not feeble, said, " I'm ready now." 

" A noble word !" exclaim'd the prince, and smote 
The ground beneath him with his firming foot : — 



THE STOKY OF RIMINI. 117 

Tlie squires rush in between, in their despair, 
But both the princes tell them to beware. 
"Back, Gerard/' cries Giovanni; "I require 
" ~No teacher here, but an observant squire." 
" Back, Tristan," Paulo cries ; " fear not for me ; 
" All is not worst that so appears to thee. 
" And here," said he, "a word." The poor youth came, 
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name : 
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be, 
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly : 
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood 
Mournfully both, each in his several mood, — 
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks, 
The other with the tears streaming down both his 
cheeks. 

The prince attack' d with nerve in every limb, 
Ivor seem'd the other slow to match with him; 
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident, 
One fought to wound, the other to prevent : 
Giovanni press' d, and push'd, and shifted aim, 
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame ; 
Paulo retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel, 
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel. 
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start, 
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part. 



118 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

" What !" cried Giovanni, who grew still more 
fierce, 
" Fighting in sport ? Playing your cart and tierce ?" 

" Not so, my prince," said Paulo ; " have a care 
" How you think so, or I shall wound you there." , 
He stamp' d, and watching as he spoke the word, 
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword. 

'Twas done. He stagger'd ; and in falling prest 
Giovanni's foot with his right hand and breast : 
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other, 
Pie smil'd and said, " No fault of yours, my brother ; 
" An accident — a slip — the finishing one 
" To errors by that poor old man begun. 
" You'll not — you'll not" — his heart leap'd on before, 
And chok'd his utterance; but he smil'd once more, 
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest; — 
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest, 
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head, 
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled. 

But noble passion touch' d Giovanni's soul ; 
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll 
Away from him at once, with all their scorn, 
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn ; — 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 119 

" By heaven, by heaven, and all the better part 
" Of ns poor creatures with a human heart, 
" I trust we reap at last, as well as plough ; — 
" But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou; 
''And, Paulo, thou wert the completest knight, 
" That ever rode with banner to the fight; 
" And thou wert the most beautiful to see, 
"That ever came in press of chivalry; 
" And of a sinful man, thou wert the best, 
" That ever for his friend put spear in rest ; 
" And thou wert the most meek and cordial, 
"That ever among ladies ate in hall; 
" And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd, 
" The kindest man that ever struck with sword." 

At this the words forsook his tongue ; and he, 
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy, 
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly how'd 
His head, and for his brother wept aloud. 

The squires with glimmering tears — Tristan, indeed, 
Heart-struck, and hardly able to proceed, — 
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound, 
And raise the body up to quit the ground. 
Giovanni starts ; and motioning to take 
The way they came, follows his brother back, 



120 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

And having seen him laid upon the bed, 
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed, 
But went away, such as he used to be, 
With looks of stately will and calm austerity. 

Tristan, who when he was to make the best 
Of something sad and not to be redress' d, 
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind, 
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd, 
And to Francesca's chamber took his way, 
To tell the message of that mortal day. 
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs, 
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears, 
And that the news, though to herself unknown, 
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown. 
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse, 
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse, 
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close 
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose, 
Made signs she guess' d what grief he came about, 
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out. 

The princess, who had pass'd a fearful night, 
Toiling with dreams, — fright crowding upon fright, 
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour, 
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power. 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 121 

Yet as her body seern'd to go, her mind 
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign' d; 
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay, 
"Wasting in patient gravity away. 
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep 
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep : 
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear, 
" Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear T 
And the poor creature, who the news had heard, 
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd 
Something about the room, and answer' d not a 
word. 

" Who's there V said that sweet voice, kindly and 
clear, 
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear: — 
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire 
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher, 
" Madam," said he, " 'tis I ; one who may say, 
" He loves his friends more than himself to-day; — 
" Tristan." — She paus'd a little, and then said — 
" Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head % 
" Something I'm sure has happen' d — tell me what — 
i 'I can bear all, though you may fancy not." 
" Madam," replied the squire, " you are, I know, 
" All sweetness — pardon me for saying so. 



122 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

" My master bade me say then," resum'd he, 

" That he spoke firmly, when he told it me, — 

" That I was also, madam, to your ear 

" Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear, — 

" That he was forced this day, whether or no, 

" To combat with the prince ; and that although 

" His noble brother was no fratricide, 

" Yet in that fight, and on his sword, — he died." 

" I understand," with firmness answer'd she, 
More low in voice, but still composedly. 
"ISTow, Tristan — faithful friend — leave me; and 

take 
" This trifle here, and keep it for my sake." 

So saying, from the curtains she put forth 
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth ; 
And he, with tears no longer to be kept 
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept, 
And kneeling took the ring, and touch'd her hand 
To either streaming eye with homage bland, 
And looking on it once, gently up started, 
And in his reverent stillness so departed. 

Her favourite lady then with the old nurse 
Return d, and fearing she must now be worse, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 123 

Gently withdrew the curtains, and look'd in : — ' 
O, who that feels one godlike spark within, 
Shall bid not earth be j ust, before 'tis hard, with sin ? 
There lay she praying, upwardly intent, 
Like a fair statue on a monument, 
With her two trembling hands together prest, 
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast. 
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall, 
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all, — 
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near 
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear ; — 
Her eyes were shut — no motion — not a breath — 
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death. 

I pass the grief that struck to every face, 
And the mute anguish all about that place, 
In which the silent people, here and there, 
Went soft, as though she still could feel their care. 
The gentle-temper'd for a while forgot 
Their own distress, or wept the common lot : 
The warmer, apter now to take offence, 
Yet hush'd as they rebuk'd, and wonder d wheDce 
Others at such a time could get their want of sense. 

Fain would I haste indeed to finish all ; 
And so at once I reach the funeral. 



124 Tin: story of rimini. 

Private 'twas fancied it must be, though some 
Thought that lier sire, the poor old duke, would 

come : 
And some wore wondering in their pity, whether 
The lovers might not have one grave together. 
Next day, however, from the palace gate 
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate; 
And all in sable clad, forth came again 
A portion of the former sprightly brain \ 
Gerard was next, and then a rank of friars; 
And then, with heralds on each side, two squires, 
The one of whom upon a cushion bore 
The coroneted helm Frince Paulo wore, 
His shield the other; — then there was a space, 
And in the middle, with a doubtful pace, 
His horse succeeded, plumed and trapp'd in 

black, 
Bearing the sword and banner on his back: 
The noble creature, as in stale he trod, 
Appear'd as if he miss'd his princely load; 
And with back-rolling eye and lingering pride, 
To hope his master still might come to ride. 
Then Tristan, heedless of what pass'd around, 
Rode by himself, with eyes upon the ground. 
Then heralds in a row : and last of all 
Appear'd a hearse, hung with an ermin'd pall, 



THE STORY OF RIMINI. 125 

And bearing on its top, together set, 

A prince's and princess's coronet. 

Mutely they issued forth, black, slow, dejected, 

Nor stopp'd within the walls, as most expected; 

But pass'd the gates — the bridge — the last 

abode, — 
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road. 

The prince, it seems, struck, since his brother's 
death, 
With what he hinted with his dying breath, 
And told by others now of all they knew, 
Had fix'd at once the course he should pursue ; 
And from a mingled feeling, which he strove 
To hide no longer from his taught self-love, 
Of sorrow, shame, resentment, and a sense 
Of justice owing to that first offence, 
Had, on the day preceding, written word 
To the old duke of all that had occurr'd :— 
" And though I shall not," (so concluded he,) 
" Otherwise touch thine age's misery, 
" Yet as I would that both one grave should hide, 
" Which can, and must not be, where I reside, 
" 'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore, 
" That he who join'd them once, should keep to part 
no more." 



126 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

The wretched father, who, when he had read 
This letter, felt it wither his grey head, 
And ever since had paced about his room, 
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom, 
Had given such orders, as he well could frame, 
To meet devoutly whatsoever came ; 
And as the news immediately took flight, 
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night, 
But talk'd the business over, and review'd 
All that they knew of her, the fair and good ; 
And so with wondering sorrow the next day, 
Waited till they should see that sad array. 

The days were then at close of autumn, — still, 
A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill ; 
There was a fitful, moaning air abroad ; 
And ever and anon, over the road, 
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, 
Whose shivering life seem'd drawing to the lees. 
The people, who from reverence kept at home, 
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come; 
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard 
But some chance horseman, or the wind that 

stirr'd, 
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then 'twas said 
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read ; 



THE STOEY OF RIMINI. 127 

And others said, that they could hear a sound 

Of many horses trampling the moist ground. 

Still nothing came, — till on a sudden, j ust 

As the wind open'd in a rising gust, 

A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread, 

They plainly heard the anthem for the dead. 

It was the choristers who went to meet 

The train, and now were entering the first street. 

Then turn'd aside that city, young and old, 

And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roli'd. 

But of the older people, few could bear 
To keep the window, when the train drew near ; 
And all felt double tenderness to see 
The bier approaching, slow and steadily, 
On which those two in senseless coldness lay, 
Who but a few short months — it seem'd a day — 
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind, 
In sunny manhood he, — she first of womankind. 

They say, that when Duke Guido saw them come, 
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum, 
The whole amount of all for which his heart 
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part, 
He rose, in private where he wept, and seem'd 
As though he'd go to them, like one that dream'd, 



128 THE STORY OF RIMINI. 

Right from the window, crying still, " My cliild 1" 
And from that day thenceforth he never smil'd. 

On that same night, those lovers silently 
Were buried in one grave, under a tree. 
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay ^ 
In the green ground : — and on fine nights in May 
Young hearts, beferoth'd, used to go there, to 
pray. 



HEEO AND LEANDEK. 



CANTO I. 



Old is the tale I tell, and yet as young 

And warm with life as ever minstrel sung : 

Two lovers fill it,— two fair shapes — two souls 

Sweet as the ]ast for whom the death-bell tolls : 

What matters it how long ago, or where 

They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair, 

Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd ? 

We hurt the stories of the antique world 

By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs 

Done them by pedants and fantastic songs, 

Or sculptures, which from Roman " studios" thrown, 

Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone. 

Truth is for ever truth, and love is love; 

The bird of Yenus is the living dove. 

Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago, 

Were made precisely like the best we know, 

K 



130 HERO AND LEANDER. 

Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek 
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week. 
Alas ! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow 
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now. 
I never think of poor Leander's fate, 
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late, 
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light, 
But as I would of two that died last night. 
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died; 
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its 
side. 

Beneath the sun which shines this very hour, 
There stood of yore — behold it now — a tow'r, 
Half set in trees and leafy luxury, 
And through them look'd a window on the sea. 
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene 
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green, 
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove, 
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love. 
Fair is the morn, the soft trees kiss and breathe ; 
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath ; 
And by the window a sweet maiden sits, 
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits, 
Eor o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight, 
Her love Leander is to come at night; 



HERO AND LEANDER. 13l 

To come, not sailing, or with help of oar, 

But with his own warm heart and arms — no more — [ 

A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore. | 



A priestess Hero is, an orphan dove, 
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love; 
A youth Leander, born across the strait, 
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate, 
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite; 
But he has made high compact with delight, 
And found a wondrous passage through the wel- 
tering night. 

I 

So sat she fix'd all day, or now was fain 
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again; 
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on, 
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone, 
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers, 
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers. 

An aged nurse had Hero in the place, 
An under priestess of an humbler race, 
Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward 
Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd. 
The temple's faith, though serious, never cross'd 
Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost 
k2 



132 HERO AND LEANDER. 

And though this present knot was to remain 
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless' d within the fane, 
And much good thanks expected in the end 
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy 

friend. 
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand, 
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and 

land. 

The reverend crone accordingly took care 
To do her duty to a time so fair, 
Saw all things right, secur'd her own small pay, 
(Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,) 
And finishing a talk, which with surprise 
She saw made grave e'en those goodhumour'd eyes, 
Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf, 
And left her nicer mistress to herself. 

Hesper meanwhile, the star with amorous eye, 
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky. 
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear, 
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere 
Like a high gulf to heaven ; and all above 
Seems waking to a fervid work of love. 
A nightingale, in transport, seem'd to fling 
His warble out, and then sit listening : 



HERO AND LEANDER. 133 

And ever and anon, amidst the flush 
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush ; 
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom' d, 
An odour small, in at the window, fumed. 

At last, with twinkle o'er a distant tower, 
A star appear'd, that was to show the hour. 
The virgin saw; and going to a room 
"Which held an altar burning with perfume, 
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair, 
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer, 
Before a statue, that of marble bright 
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light. 
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit, 
And o'er her head anxiously holding it, 
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there, 
Lifted its light into the darksome air. 

The boy beheld, — beheld it from the sea, 
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee, j* 
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly. j 

Smooth was the sea that night, the lover strong, 
And in the springy waves he danc'd along. 
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut 
With his clear arms, and from before him put 



134 HERO AND LEANDER. 

The parting waves, and in and oat the air 
His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair; 
But when he saw the torch, oh, how he sprung, 
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung 
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea, 
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee, 
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly ! 

Arriv'd at last on shallow ground, he saw 
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw : 
Again it issued just above the door 
With a white hand, and vanish'd as before. 
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound 
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground, 
And treading up a little slippery bank, 
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank, 
Came to a door ajar, — all hush'd, all blind 
With darkness ; yet he guess'd who stood behind ; 
And entering with a turn, the breathless boy 
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die 
for joy. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



135 



CANTO II. 



Thus pass'd the summer shadows in delight : 
Leander came as surely as the night, 
And when the morning woke upon the sea, 
It saw him not, for back at home was he. 
Sometimes, when it blew fresh, the struggling flare 
Seem'd out ; but then he knew his Hero's care, 
And that she only wall'd it with her cloak ; 
Brighter again from out the dark it broke. 
Sometimes the night was almost clear as day, 
Wanting no torch ; and then, with easy play, 
He dipp'd along beneath the silver moon, 
Placidly heark'ning to the waters tune. 
The people round the country, who from far 
Used to behold the light, thought it a star, 
Set there perhaps by Yenus as a wonder, 
To mark the favourite maiden who slept under. 
Therefore they trod about the grounds by day \ 
Gently; and fishermen at night, they say, 
With reverence kept aloof, cutting their silent 
way. 



But autumn now was over ; and the crane 
Began to clang against the coming rain, 



136 HERO AND LEANDER. 

And peevish winds ran cutting o'er the sea, 
Which oft return'd a face of enmity. 
The gentle girl, before he went away, 
Wonld look out sadly toward the cold-eyed 

day 
And often beg him not to come that night; 
But still he came, and still she bless'd his sight; 
And so, from day to day, he came and went, 
Till time had almost made her confident. 

One evening, as she sat, twining sweet bay 
And myrtle garlands for a holiday, 
And watch'd at intervals the dreary sky, 
In which the dim sun held a languid eye, 
She thought with such a full and quiet sweetness 
Of all Leander's love and his completeness, 
All that he was, and said, and look'd, and dared, 
His form, his step, his noble head full-hair' d, 
And how she lov'd him, as a thousand might, 
And yet he earn'd her still thus night by night, 
That the sharp pleasure mov'd her like a grief, 
And tears came dropping with their meek 
relief. 

Meantime the sun had sunk; the hilly mark, 
Across the straits, mix'd with the mightier dark, 



HERO AND LEAXDEE. 



137 



And night came on. All noises by degrees 
Were hush'd, — the fisher's call, the birds, the 

trees, 
All but the washing of the eternal seas. 



Hero look'd out, and trembling augur'd ill, 
The darkness held its breath so very still. 
But yet she hop'cl he might arrive before 
The storm began, or not be far from shore ; 
And crying, as she stretch' d forth in the air, 
" Bless him !" she turn'd, and said a tearful prayer, 
And mounted to the tower, and shook the torch's 
flare. 



But he, Leander, almost half across, 
Threw his blithe locks behind him with a toss, 
And hail'd the light victoriously, secure 
Of clasping his kind love, so sweet and sure; 
When suddenly, a blast, as if in wrath, 
Sheer from the hills, came headlong on his path 
Then started off; and driving round the sea, 
Dashed up the panting waters roaringly. 
The youth at once was thrust beneath the main 
With blinded eyes, but quickly rose again, 
And with a smile at heart, and stouter pride, 
Surmounted, like a god, the rearing tide. 



138 HERO AND LEANDEIt. 

But what ? The torch gone out ! So long too ! See, 
He thinks it comes ! Ah, yes, — 'tis she ! 'tis she ! 
Again he springs; and though the winds arise 
Fiercer and fiercer, swims with ardent eyes ; 
And always, though with ruffian waves dash'd 

hard, 
Turns thither with glad groan his stout regard ; 
And always, though his sense seems wash'd away, 
Emerges, fighting tow'rds the cordial ray. 

But driven about at last, and drench' d the while, 
The noble boy loses that inward smile : 
For now, from one black atmosphere, the rain 
Sweeps into stubborn mixture with the main; 
And the brute wind, unmuffling all its roar, 
Storms; — and the light, gone out, is seen no more. 

Then dreadful thoughts of death, of waves heap'd 

on him, 
And friends, and parting daylight, rush upon him. 
He thinks of prayers to Neptune and his daughters, 
And Venus, Hero's queen, sprung from the 

waters ; 
And then of Hero only, — how she fares, 
And what she'll feel, when the blank morn 

appears ; 



HERO AND LEANDER. 139 

And at that thought he stiffens once again 

His limbs, and pants, and strains, and climbs, — in 

vain. 
Fierce draughts he swallows of the wilful wave, 
His tossing hands are lax, his blind look grave, 
Till the poor youth (and yet no coward he) 
Spoke once her name, and yielding wearily, 
Wept in the middle of the scornful sea. 

I need not tell how Hero, when her light 
Would burn no longer, pass'd that dreadful night; 
How she exclaim'd, and wept, and could not sit 
One instant in one place; nor how she lit 
The torch a hundred times, and when she found 
'Twas all in vain, her gentle head turn'd round 
Almost with rage ; and in her fond despair 
She tried to call him through the deafening air. 

But when he came not, — when from hour to 
hour 
He came not, — though the storm had spent its 

power, 
And when the casement, at the dawn of light, 
Began to show a square of ghastly white, 
She went up to the tower, and straining out 
To search the seas, downwards, and round about, 



140 HERO AND LEANDER. 

She saw, at last" — she saw her lord indeed 
Floating, and wash'd about, like a vile weed ; 
On which such strength of passion and dismay 
Seiz'd her, and such an impotence to stay, 
That from the turret, like a stricken dove, 
With fluttering arms she leap'd, and join'd her 
drowned love. 



THE PANTHER. 

The panther leap'd to the front of his lair, 
And stood with a foot up, and snuff 'd the air ; 
He quiver'd his tongue from his panting mouth, 
And look'd with a yearning towards the south ; 
For he scented afar in the coming breeze 
News of the gums and their blossoming trees ; 
And out of Armenia that same day- 
He and his race came bounding away. 
Over the mountains and down to the plains 
Like Bacchus's panthers with wine in their veins, 
They came where the woods wept odorous rains; 
And there, with a quivering, every beast 
Fell to his old Pamphylian feast. 

The people who liv'd not far away, 
Heard the roaring on that same day; 
And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms, 
The panthers are come, and are drinking the gums : 
And some of them going with swords and spears 
To gather their share of the rich round tears, 



142 THE PANTHER. 

The panther I spoke of follow'd them back ; 
And dumbly they let him tread close in the 

track, 
And lured him after them into the town; 
A nd then they let the portcullis down 
And took the panther, which happened to be 
The largest was seen in all Pamphily. 

By every one there was the panther admir'd, 
So fine was his shape and so sleekly attir'd, 
And such an air, both princely and swift, 
He had, when giving a sudden lift 
To his mighty paw, he'd turn at a sound, 
And so stand panting and looking around, 
As if he attended a monarch crown'd. 
And truly, they wonder' d the more to behold 
About his neck a collar of gold, 
On which was written, in characters broad, 
" Arsaces the king to the itfysian God." 
So they tied to the collar a golden chain, 
Which made the panther a captive again, 
And by degrees he grew fearful and still, 
As though he had lost his lordly will. 

But now came the spring, when free-born love 
Calls up nature in forest and grove, 



THE PANTHER. 143 

And makes each thing leap forth, and be 

Loving, and lovely, and blithe as he. 

The panther he felt the thrill of the air, 

And he gave a leap up, like that at his lair ; 

He felt the sharp sweetness more strengthen his \ 

veins 
Ten times than ever the spicy rains, 
And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains : , 
He has burst his chains, and ah, ha ! he's gone, 
And the links and the gazers are leffc alone, 
And off to the mountains the panther's flown. 

Now what made the panther a prisoner be ? 
Lo ! 'twas the spices and luxury. 
And what set that lordly panther free ? 
'Twas Love ! — 'twas Love ! — 'twas no one but he.* 

* " What is said of that Taurus which is so called by us, extend- 
ing beyond Armenia (though this has been called in question), is 
now made apparent from the panthers, which I know have been 
taken in the spice-bearing part of Pamphylia ; for they, delighting 
in odours, which they scent at a great distance, quit Armenia, and 
cross the mountains in search of the tears of the storax, at the time 
when the wind blows from that quarter, and the trees distil their 
gums. It is said a panther was once taken in Pamphylia, with a 
gold chain about its neck, on which was inscribed, in Armenian 
letters, ' Arsaces the king, to the Nyssean Grod.' Arsaces was then 
king of Armenia, who is supposed to hare given it its liberty on 
account of its magnitude, and in honour of Bacchus, who, amongst 



144 THE PANTHER. 

the Indians, is called Nysius, from Nysa, one of their towns : this, 
however, is an appellation which he bears among all the oriental 
nations. This panther became subject to man, and grew so tame, 
that it was patted and caressed by every one. But on the approach 
of spring, a season when panthers become susceptible of love, it felt 
the general passion, and rushed with fury into the mountains in 
quest of a mate, with the gold chain about its neck." — Life of 
Apollonius of Tyana, p. 68. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 



These ballads are founded on the popular assumption that the 
good outlaw Robin Hood, " the gentlest of thieves," as the old 
historian called him, was of " gentle blood." It is a very good 
and very probable assumption, considering how the Saxon gentry 
in his time were robbed of their estates by their Norman tyrants ; 
and it ought never to be more popular than now, when to feel for 
the sufferings of all classes, and endeavour to advance the whole 
human race, is a mark of the highest education, that of the 
Sovereign included. The author adopted the metrical licence of the 
old ballads while writing on this subject, but it was not his object 
to confine himself to their manner. 

ROBIN HOOD A CHILD. 

It was the pleasant season yet, 
When the stones at cottage doors 

Dry quickly while the roads are wet, 
After the silver showers. 

The green leaves they look'd greener still, 
And the thrush, renewing his tune, 

Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill 
Into the bright blue noon. 

L 



146 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

Robin Hood's mother look'd out, and said, 
" It were a shame and a sin, 

For fear of getting a wet head, 
To keep such a day within, 

Nor welcome up from his sick bed 
Your uncle Gamelyn." 

And Robin leap'd for mirth and glee, 

And so they quit the door, 
And " Mother, I'm your dog," quoth he, 

And scamper'd on before. 

Robin was a gentle boy, 

And therewithal as bold ; 
To say he was his mother's joy, 

It were a phrase too cold. 

His hair upon his thoughtful brow 
Came smoothly clipp'd, and sleek, 

But ran into a curl somehow 
Beside bis merrier cheek. 

Great love to him his uncle, too, 

The noble Gamelyn bare, 
And often said, as his mother knew, 

That lie should be his heir. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 147 

Gamely n's eyes, now getting dim, 

"Would twinkle at his sight, 
And his ruddy wrinkles laugh at him 

Between his locks so white : 

Eor Bobin already let him see 
He should beat his playmates all 

At wrestling, and running, and archery, 
For he cared not for a fall. 

Now and then his gall arose, 

And into a rage he flew; 
But 'twas only at such as Tom Harden's blows, 
Who, when he had given a bloody nose, 
Used to mimic the cock when he crows; 

Otherwise Bob laugh'd too. 

Merriest he was of merry boys, 

And would set the old helmets bobbing;* 
If his uncle ask'd about the noise, 

'Twas " If you please, sir, Bobin." 

And yet if the old man wish'd no noise, 

He'd come and sit at his knee, 
And be the gravest of grave-eyed boys, 

And not a word spoke he. 

* Of his uncle's ancestors, to wit, in the hall. 
l2 



148 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

So whenever he and his mother came 
To brave old Shere Wood Hall, 

'Twas nothing there but sport and game, 
And holiday folks all : 

The servants never were to blame, 
Though they let the pasty fall. 

And now the travellers turn the road, 
And now they hear the rooks; 

And there it is, — the old abode, 
With all its hearty looks. 

Robin laugh' d, and the lady too, 
And they look'd at one another; 

Says Robin, " I'll knock as I'm used to do 
At uncle's window, mother." 

And so he pick'd up some pebbles and ran, 

And jumping higher and higher, 
He reach'd the windows with tan a ran tan, 
And instead of the kind old white hair'd man, 
There look'd out a fat friar. 

" How now," said the fat friar, angrily, 
"What is this knocking so wild?" 

But when he saw young Robin's eye, 
He said, " Go round, my child. 



BALLADS OF EOBIN HOOD. 149 

" Go round to the hall, and I'll tell you all." 
" He'll tell us all!" thought Robin; 

And his mother and he went quietly, 
Though her heart was set a throbbing. 

The friar stood in the inner door, 

And tenderly said, " I fear 
You know not the good squire's no more, 

Even Gamelyn Shere. 

" Gamelyn of Shere Wood is dead, 

He changed but yesternight :" 
" Now make us way," the lady said, 

To see that doleful sight." 

" Good old Gamelyn Shere is dead, 
And has made us his holy heirs :" 

The lady stay'd not for all he said, 
But went weeping up the stairs. 

Robin and she went hand in hand, 

Weeping all the way, 
Until they came where the lord of that land 

Dumb in his cold bed lay. 

His hand she took, and saw his dead look, 
With the lids over each eye-ball; 

And Robin and she wept as plenteously 
As though he had left them all. 



150 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

" I will return, Sir Abbot of Vere, 

I will return, as is meet, 
And see my honour' d brother dear 

Laid in bis winding sheet. 

" And I will stay, for to go were a sin, 

For all a woman's tears, 
And see the noble Gamelyn 

Laid equal with the Veres." 

The lady went with a sick heart out 

Into the fresh air, 
And told her Eobin all about 

The abbot whom he saw there : 

And how his uncle must have been 

Disturb'd in his failing sense, 
To leave his wealth to these artful men, 

At her's and Robin's expense. 

Sad was the stately day for all 

But the Yere Abbey friars, 
When the coffin was stript of its hiding pall, 

Amidst the hushing choirs. 

Sad was its going down into the dust, 
And the thought of the face departed ; 

The lady shook at them, as shake we must, 
And Robin he felt strange-hearted. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 151 

That self-same evening, nevertheless, 

They return'd to Locksley town, 
The lady in a sore distress, 

And Robin looking down. 

]STo word he spoke, no note he took 

Of bird, or beast, or aught, 
Till she ask'd him with a woful look 

What made him so full of thought. 

u I was thinking, mother," said little Robin, 

And with his own voice so true 
He spoke right out, " That if I was a king, 
Or if I was a man, which is the next thing, 

I'd see what those friars do. 

" I wouldn't let 'em be counted friars, 

If they did as these have done, 
But make 'em fight, for rogues and liars ; 
I'd make 'em fight, to see which was right, 

Them, or the mother's son." 

His mother stoop'd with a tear of joy, 
And she kiss'd him again and again, 

And said, " My own little Robin boy, 
Thou wilt be a King of Men." 



152 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 



ROBIN HOOD'S FLIGHT. 

Robin Hood's mother, these ten years now, 
Has been gone from her earthly home ; 

And Robin has paid, he scarce knew how, 
A sum for a noble tomb. 

The church-yard lies on a woody hill, 

But open to sun and air: 
It seems as if the heaven still 

Were blessing the good bones there. 

Often when Robin turn'd that way, 
He look'd through a sweet thin tear; 

But he look'd in a different manner, they say, 
Towards the Abbey of Yere. 

Custom had made him not care for wealth, 

Sincere was his mirth at pride ; 
He had youth, and strength, and health, 

And enough for one beside. 

But he thought of his gentle mother's cheek, 

How it faded and sunk away, 
And how she used to grow more weak 

And weary every day; 

And how, when trying a hymn, her voice 
At evening would expire, 



BALLADS OF EOBUsT HOOD. 153 

How unlike it was the arrogant noise 
Of the hard throats in the quire : 

And Robin thought too of the poor, 

How they toil'd without their share, 
And how the alms at the abbey door 

But kept them as they were : 

And he thought him then of the friars again, 

Who rode jingling up and down, 
With their trappings and things as fine as the king's, 

Though they wore but a shaven crown. 

And then of the king bold Robin he thought, 

And the homes for his sports undone ; 
How the poor were turn'd out where his deer were 

brought, 
Yet on body and soul what agonies wrought, 

If starving, they killed but one. 

And in angry mood, as Robin thus stood, 

Digging his bow in the ground, 
He was aware in old Shere Wood, 

Of a huckster who look'd around. 

" And what is Will doing T said Robin then, 

" That he looks so fearful and wan V 
" Oh my dear master that should have been, 

I am a weary man." 



154 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

" A weary man/' said Will Nokes, " am I ; 

For unless I pilfer this wood 
To sell to the fletchers, for want I shall die 

Here in this forest so good. 

" Here in this forest where I have been 

So happy and so stout, 
And like a palfrey on the green, 

Have carried yourself about." 

" And why, Will Nokes, not come to me ? 

Why not to Eobin, Will? 
For I remember thy love and thy glee, 

And the scar that marks thee still; 

" And not a soul of my uncle's men 

To such a pass should come, 
While Eobin can find in his pocket or bin 

A penny or a crumb. 

"Stay thee, Will Nokes, man, stay awhile; 

And kindle a fire for me." 
And into the wood for half a mile, 

He has vanish 'd instantly. 

Eobin Hood, with his cheek on fire, 
Has drawn his bow so stern, 

And a leaping deer, with one leap higher, 
Lies motionless in the fern. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 155 

Robin, like a proper knight, 

As he should have been, 
Carv'd a part of the shoulder right, 

And bore off a portion clean. 

" Oh, what hast thou done, dear master mine, 

What hast thou done for me V* 
" Roast it, Will, for excepting wine, 

Thou shalt feast thee royally." 

And Nokes he took and half roasted it, 

Blubbering with blinding tears, 
And ere he had eaten a second bit, 

A trampling came to their ears. 

They heard the tramp of a horse's feet, 

And they listen'd and kept still, 
For Will was feeble, and knelt by the meat ; 

And Robin he stood by Will. 

" Seize him, seize him !" the Abbot cried 
With his fat voice through the trees; 

Robin a smooth arrow felt and eyed, 
And Will jump'd stout with his knees. 

Time had made the fat Abbot, I trow, 
A fatter and angrier man ; 



156 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

Yet the voice was the same that twelve years ago 
Out of the window, to Robin below, 
Answer'd the tan a ran tan. 

" Seize him ! seize him !" and now they appear, 

The Abbot and foresters three : 
"'Twas I," cried Will, "that slew the deer:" 
Says Robin, " Now let not a man come near, 

Or he's dead as dead can be." 

But on they came, and with gullet cleft 

The first one met the shaft, 
And he fell with a face of all mirth bereft, 

That just before had laugh'd. 

The others turn'd to that Abbot vain, 

But " Seize him !" still he cried, 
And as the second man turn'd again, 

The second man shriek' d, and died. 

" Seize him, seize him still, I say," 
Cried the Abbot, in furious chafe, 

" Or these dogs will grow so bold some day, 
E'en monks will not be safe." 

A fatal word ! for as he sat, 

Urging the sword to cut, 
An arrow stuck in his paunch so fat, 

As in a leathern butt : 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 157 

As in a leathern butt of wine, 

Or piece of beef so round, 
Stuck that arrow, strong and fine; 

Sharp had it been ground. 

I know not what the Abbot, alack ! 

Thought when that was done ; 
But there tumbled from the horse's back 

A matter of twenty stone. 

" Truly," said Eobin without fear, 

Smiling there as he stood, 
" Never was slain so fat a deer 

In good old Gamelyn's wood." 

" Pardon, pardon, Sir Hobin stout," 

Said he that stood apart, 
" As soon as I knew thee, I wish'd thee out 

Of the forest with all my heart. 

" And I pray thee let me follow thee 

Any where under the sky, 
For thou wilt never stay here with me, 

Nor without thee can I." 

Robin smiled, and suddenly fell 

Into a little thought; 
And then into a leafy dell 

The three slain men they brought. 



158 BALLADS OF EOBIN HOOD. 

Ankle deep in leaves so red, 
Which autumn there had cast, 

When going to her winter bed 
She had undrest her last. 

And there in a hollow, side by side, 
They buried them under the treen; 

The Abbot's belly, for all its pride, 
Made not the grave be seen. 

Robin Hood, and the forester, 
And Nokes the happy Will, 

Struck off among the green leaves there 
Up a pathless hill; 

And Robin caught a sudden sight 
Of merry sweet Locksley town, 

Reddening in the sunset bright ; 
And the gentle tears came down. 

Robin look'd at the town and land, 
And the church-yard where it lay; 

And loving Will he kiss'd his hand, 
And turn'd his head away. 

Then Robin turn'd with a grasp of Will's, 
And clapp'd him on the shoulder, 

And said, with one of his pleasant smiles, 
" Now show us three men bolder." 



BALLADS OF EOBIX HOOD. 159 

And so they took their march away, 

As firm as if to fiddle, 
To j ourney that night and all next day, 

With Robin Hood in the middle. 



ROBIN HOOD AN OUTLAW. 

Robin Hood is an outlaw bold, 
Under the greenwood tree; 

Bird, nor stag, nor morning air, 
Is more at large than he. 

They sent against him twenty men, 
Who join'd him laughing-eyed ; 

They sent against him thirty more, 
And they remain'd beside. 

All the stoutest of the train 
That grew in Gamelyn wood, 

Whether they came with these or not, 
Are now with Robin Hood. 

And not a soul in Locksley town 
Would speak him an ill word; 

The friars raged; but no man's tongue, 
Nor even feature stirred ; 



160 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

Except among a very few, 

"Who dined in the Abbey halls ; 
And then with a sigh bold Robin knew 

His true friends from his false. 

There was Roger the monk, that used to make 

All monkery his glee; 
And Midge, on whom Robin had never turn'd 

His face but tenderly ; 

With one or two, they say, besides — 

Lord ! that in this life's dream 
Men should abandon one true thing, 

That would abide with them. 

We cannot bid our strength remain, 

Our cheeks continue round ; 
We cannot say to an aged back, 

Stoop not towards the ground : 

We cannot bid our dim eyes see 

Things as bright as ever, 
Nor tell our friends, though friends from youth, 

That they'll forsake us never : 

But we can say, / never will, 

False world, be false for thee; 
And, oh Sound Truth and Old Regard, 

Nothing shall part us three. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 161 



HOW EOBIN AND HIS OUTLAWS LIVED IN 
THE WOODS. 

Robin and his merry men 

Liv'd just like the birds ; 
They had almost as many tracks as thoughts, 

And whistles and songs as words. 

All the morning they were wont 

To fly their grey-goose quills 
At butts, or trees, or wands and twigs, 

Till theirs was the skill of skills. 

With swords, too, they played lustily, 

And at quarter-staff; 
Buffets oft their forfeits were, 

Fit to twirl a calf. 

Friends who join'd the sport were bound 

Those hazards to endure ; 
But foes were lucky to carry away 

What took a year to cure. 

The horn was then their dinner-bell ; 

When, like princes of the wood, 
Under the state of summer trees, 

Pure venison was their food. 

M 



162 BALLADS OF BOBIN HOOD. 

Pure venison and good ale or wine, 
Except when luck was chuff; 

Or grant 'twas Adam's ale ; what then 1 
Their blood was wine enough. 

And story then, and jest, and song, 
And Harry's harp went round ; 

And sometimes they'd get up and dance, 
For pleasure of the sound. 

Tingle, tangle ! said the harp, 

As they footed in and out : 
Good Lord ! was ever seen a dance 

At once so light and stout * 

A pleasant sight, especially 

If Margery was there, 
Or little Ciss, or laughing Bess, 

That tired out six pair; 

Or any other merry lass 

From the neighbouring villages, 

Who came with milk and eggs, or fruit, 
A singing through the trees. 

Only they say the men were given 

Too often to take wives, 
And then, 'twixt forest and a shop, 

Lead strange half-honest lives. 



BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 163 

But all the country round about 

Was fond of Robin Hood, 
With whom they got a share of more 

Than fagots from the wood. 

Nor ever would he suffer harm, 

To woman, above all; 
No plunder, were she ne'er so great, 

No fright to great or small; 

No, — not a single kiss unliked, 

Nor one look-saddening clip ; 
Accurst be he, said Robin Hood, 

Makes pale a woman's lip. 

And then, oh then, Maid Marian came 

From her proud brother's hall, 
With a world of love and tears, 

And smiles behind them all. 

They built her bowers in forests three, 

To flit from one to t'other, 
And Robin and she reign'd as pleasant to all, 

As faithful to one another. 

Only upon the Normans proud, 

And on their unjust store, 
He'd lay his fines of equity 

For his merry men and the poor. 
m 2 



164 BALLADS OF ROBIN HOOD. 

And special was his joy, no doubt, 
(Which made the dish to curse) 

To light upon a good fat friar, 
And carve him of his purse. 

A monk to him was a toad in the hole, 
And a priest was a pig in grain, 

But a bishop was a baron of beef, 
To cut and come again. 

Says Robin to the poor who came 

To ask of him relief, 
You do but get your goods again 

That were altered by the thief. 

See here now is a plump new coin, 
And here's a lawyer's cloak, 

And here's the horse the bishop rode, 
When suddenly he woke. 

Well, ploughman, there's a sheaf of yours 

Turn'd to yellow gold; 
And, miller, there's your last year's rent, 

'Twill wrap thee from the cold. 

And you there, Wat ef Herefordshire, 
Who such a way have come, 

Get upon your land-tax, man, 
And ride it merrily home. 



MAHMOUD* 



TO RICHARD HENRY HORNE. 



Horne, hear a theme that should have had its dues 
From thine own passionate and thoughtful Muse. 



There came a man, making his hasty moan 
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne, 
And crying out — " My sorrow is my right, 
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night." 
" Sorrow," said Mahmoud, " is a reverend thing : 
I recognise its right, as king with king; 
Speak on." " A fiend has got into my house," 
Exclaim'd the staring man, " and tortures us : 
One of thine officers; — he comes, the abhorr'd, 
And takes possession of my house, my board, 
My bed : — I have two daughters and a wife, 
And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad 
with life." 

* This is Mahmoud the Gaznevide, whose history has been told 
by Gibbon. The version of the noble and affecting adventure, here 
repeated, was suggested by a perusal of it in Gibbon's authority, the 
Bibliotheque Orientate of D'Herbelot, a book to which the author 
takes this opportunity of expressing his gratitude for many an hour 
of comfort. 



166 MAHMOUD. 

" Is lie there now V said Malimoud : — " No; — he left 
The house when I did, of my wits bereft; 
And laugh' d me down the street, because I vow'd 
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud. 
I'm mad with want — I'm mad with misery, 
And oh thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee !" 

The Sultan comforted the man, and said, 
" Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread," 
(For he was poor,) "and other comforts. Go; 
And, should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud 
know." 

In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, 
And shaken voice, the suitor re-appear' d, 
And said " He's come." — Mahmoud said not a word, 
But rose, and took four slaves, each with a sword, 
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place, 
And hear a voice, and see a female face, 
That to the window nutter' d in affright. 
"Go in," said Mahmoud, "and put out the light; 
But tell the females first to leave the room; 
And when the drunkard follows them, we come." 

The man went in. There was a cry, and hark ! 
A table falls, the window is struck dark; 



MAHMOUD. 



167 



Forth rush the breathless women; and behind 
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind. 
In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife, 
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his 
bloody life. 

" Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud. 
'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd 
Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face ; 
Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place, 
And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept 
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept. 

In reverent silence the spectators wait, 
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat ; 
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart, 
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart. 

The man amaz'd, all mildness now, and tears, 
Fell at the Sultan's feet, with many prayers, 
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave, 
The reason first of that command he gave 
About the light ; then, when he saw the face, 
"Why he knelt down ; and lastly, how it was, 
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the 
place. 



168 MAHMOUD. 

The Sultan said, with much humanity, 
" Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry, 
I could not rid me of a dread, that one 
By whom such daring villanies were done, 
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son. 
Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd 
A father's heart, in case the worst appeard. 
For this I had the light put out. But when 
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain, 
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter, 
Whose work I had performed through pain and fear ; 
And then I rose, and was refresh'd with food, 
The first time since thou cam'st, and marr'dst my 
solitude." 



THE GENTLE AEMOUE; 

OR, 
THREE KNIGHTS IN STEEL AGAINST ONE IN LINEN. 



The main circumstance of this story — a knight fighting against 
three, with no other coat of mail than the delicatest garment of his 
mistress — is taken from one of the Fabliaux that were versified by 
the late Mr. Way. The lady's appearance in the garment, after the 
battle, is from the same poem. The turn given to these incidents, 
the colouring, and the sentiment, are the work of the present 
writer. The original is a curious specimen of the licence of old 
times. A married woman, who has a good-humoured craven for 
her husband, is made love to by three knights ; to each of whom, 
as a trial of his affection, and by way of proving the tenderness of 
her deserts, she proposes that he shall mix in the fight of a tourna- 
ment, with no other covering to his body than the one just men- 
tioned. Two of them decline the experiment ; the third accepts it, 
is victorious, and, in order to be on a par with her in delicacy of 
sentiment, requests that she will make her appearance at her 
husband's table in the triumphant investment. She does so ; the 
guests are struck with admiration ; 

" "While the good spouse (not bold, 'twas lately sung) 
Cast down his honest eyes, and held his tongue. 

" Speak, guileless damsels ! Dames, in love well read ! 
Speak, Sirs ! in chivalry and honour bred ; 
Who best deserves — the lady or the knight ? 
He, death who braved, or she, censorious spite ?" 

Allowance is to be made for the opinions of a different age ; and 
we see, even here, right and wrong principles struggling in the per- 
plexities of custom. But the cultivation of brute force is upper- 
most ; and nothing can reconcile us to the disposition of the woman 



170 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

who could speculate upon such a tribute to her vanity. It is hoped 
that the heroine of the following version of the story, without 
being wanting in self-love, is a little better, and not unsuited to 
any age. 

It has been thought by some persons (and I am ashamed for their 
sakes, not for my own, to say it) that the leading subject of the 
poem, a shift, is unfit for relation ! In the name of common sense and 
modesty, on what ground ? I confess I should think very ill of any 
mind, not perverted in its ideas by the worst kind of town life, that 
could entertain so unworthy a fancy. Most assuredly I wrote for 
no such persons, but for the innocent, the noble, and the wise. I 
certainly, especially after such warning, would not read the poem 
to everybody. I would not have read it, for instance, had I lived 
in their days, to the club-rooms of Tom Brown and Tom D' Urfey ; 
and I might have had doubts of the audiences of Mrs. Behn and 
Mrs. Centlivre ; but I could have read it with pleasure {literary 
modesty apart) to Addison and Steele, to Atterbury and Berkeley, to 
their wives and to their daughters. I would have said nothing about 
the story in the circles of King Charles the Second, male or female ; 
nothing to the Buckinghams and Rochesters, or the Duchesses of 
Cleveland and Portsmouth ; but I would have repeated it without 
hesitation to Cowley, to Evelyn, to Andrew Marvell, to Milton him- 
self, and to every woman whom they respected ; — to Lady Fanshawe, 
and to Lucy Hutchinson. " No thought infirm," I would be sworn, 
would have "altered their cheek." They would have thought of 
nothing but the sentiment, and virtues, and nobleness of the story. 
With those only would cheeks like theirs have glowed. 

Of some imaginable living readers, equally refined, it does not 
become me to speak; but I may add, that "those poor noble, 
wounded, and sick men," who are suffering for us in the East, 
would find the achievements, and probably the affections of the 
story, too much like some of their own to disrespect them : nor do 
I believe it would be despised even by the divine women who have 
gone to pour balm into their wounds. 



THE GENTLE AEMOUR. 171 



CANTO I. 



A lady's gift T sing, which meant in blame, 

His glorious hauberk to a knight became, 

And in the field such dire belabouring bore, 

As gentle armour never stood before; 

A song of love, fit for the purest ears, 

With smiles begun and clos'd, and manhood in the tears. 

There liv'd a knight, when knighthood was in fiow'r, 
Who charm'd alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r ; 
Young, handsome, blithe, loyal and brave of course, 
He stuck as firmly to his friend as horse ; 
And only show'd, for so complete a youth, 
Somewhat too perfect a regard for truth. 
He own'd 'twas inconvenient; sometimes felt 
A wish 'twere buckled in another's belt ; 
Doubted its modesty, its use, its right, 
Yet after all remain'd the same true knight : 
So potent is a custom, early taught; 
And to such straits may honest men be brought. 

'Tis true, to be believ'd was held a claim 
Of gentle blood, and not to be, a shame : — 



172 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

A liar, notorious as the noon-day sun, 
Was bound to fight you, if you call'd him one : — 
But yet to be so nice, and stand, profess' d, 
All truth, was held a pedantry at best; 
Invidious by the men ; and by the fair 
A thing at once to dote on and beware. 
What bliss to meet his flatteries, eye to eye ! 
But could he not, then, tell one little lie 1 

At length our hero found, to take his part, 
A lovely girl, a quick and virgin heart, 
One that believ'd what any friend averr'd, 
Much more the whisp'rer of earth's sweetest word. 
He lov'd her for her cordial, trusting ways, 
Her love of love, and readiness to praise ; 
And she lov'd him because he told her so, 
And truth makes true love doubly sweet to 
know. 

It chanc'd this lady in relation stood 
To one as beautiful, but not so good, 
Who had been blaz'd, for what indeed she was, 
By a young lord, over his hippocras,* 
Her lover once, but now so far from tender, 
He swore he'd kick her very least defender. 
* A spiced wine, much in request during times of chivalry. 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 173 

The world look'd hard for some one of her kin 
To teach this spark to look to his own skin; 
But no one came : the lady wept for spite : 
At length her cousin ask'd it of the knight. 

The knight look'd troubled to the last degree, 
Turn'd pale, then red, but said it could not be. 
With many sighs he said it, many pray'rs 
To be well construed — nay, at last with tears ; 
And own'd a knight might possibly be better, 
Who read the truth less nicely to the letter; 
But 'twas his weakness, — 'twas his education, — 
A dying priest had taught him, his relation, 
A kind of saint, who meant him for the church, 
And thus had left his breeding in the lurch; 
The good old man ! he lov'd him, and took blame 
(He own'd it) thus to mix his love with shame : 
" But oh reflect, my sweet one," cried the youth, 
" How you yourself have lov'd me for my truth; 
How I love you for loving it, and how 
Secure it makes us of our mutual vow. 
To feel this hand, to look into those eyes, — 
It makes me feel as sure, as of the earth and skies." 

" I did love, and I do," the lady cried, 
With hand but half allow' d, and cheek aside ; 



174 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

" But then I thought you took me at my word, 
And would have scorn' d what I pronounc'd absurd 
My cousin's wrong'd ; I'm sure of it ; do you ^ 
Be sure as well, and show what you can do : 
Let but one mind be seen betwixt us two." 

In vain our hero, while his aspect glow'd 
To hear these lovely words, the difference show'd 
'Twixt her kind wishes and an ill desert : 
The more he talk'd, the more her pride was hurt, 
Till rais'd from glow to glow, and tear to tear, 
And pique to injury, she spoke of fear. 

"Fear!" cried the knight, blushing because he 
blush'd, 
While sorrow through his gaze in wonder rush'd ; 
" Had I been present when this lord was heard, 
I might perhaps have stopp'd him with a word; 
Oue word (had I suspected it) to show 
How ignorant you were of what all know ; 
And with what passion you could take the part 
Of one, unworthy of your loving heart : 
But when I know the truth, and know that he 
Knew not, nor thought, of either you or me, 
And when I'm call'd on, and in open day, 
To swear that true is false, and yea is nay, 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 175 

And know I'm in a lie, and yet go through it, 
By all that's blest I own I cannot do it. 
Let me but feel me buckled for the right, 
And come a world in arms, I'm still % knight : 
But give my foe the truth, and me the fraud, 
And the pale scholar of the priest is awed." 

" Say not the word," the hasty fair one cried : 
" I see it all, and wish I might have died. 
Go, Sir, oh go ! a soldier and afraid ! 
Was it for this you lov'd a trusting maid ? 
Your presence kills me, Sir, with shame and 

grief." — 
She said; and sunk in tears and handkerchief. 

" Ah, Mabel," said the knight, as with a kiss 
He bow'd on her dropp'd head, " you'll mourn for 

this." 
He look'd upon her glossy locks, admir'd 
Their gentleness for once, and with a sigh retir'd. 

From day to day Sir Hugh has paced his floor, 
Look'd out of window, listen'd at the door, 
Wrote twice; wrote thrice; learnt of her health; 

took up 
His lute, his book; fill'd, and forgot, a cup; 



176 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

Tried all but pride, and found no comfort still : 
Lov'd him she had, but more had lov'd her will. 

It chanc'd a short time after, that the king 
Proclaim'd a joust at the return of spring: 
The suburb was all hammers, boards, and crowd; 
The knights and tailors pleas' d, the ladies proud; 
All but our hero and the cousins twain, 
Who nurs'd their several sullenness of pain, 
And tore in secret much their mental hair; 
The ladies that they had no lovers there, 
The gentle knight in amorous despair. 
The lord who had denounc'd the light one's name, 
Seeing no step to vindicate her fame, 
And hearing of her cousin's broken vow, 
Would laugh, and lift his shoulders and his brow, 
And talk of tricks that run in families ; \ 

And then he'd lift his glass, and looking wise, 
Drink to the health of "Truth betwixt Two 

Lies." 

Two fluster'd fools, though brave, and men of birth, 
There were, who join'd in this unseemly mirth; 
Fellows who knew, and knew it to their shame, 
The worth of one, and chaff of t'other dame. 
These clubb'd their jealousies, revenge, and spite, 
Till broad the scandal grew, and reach'd the knight. 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 177 

Our lover heard with mingled rage and joy, 
Then rose from out his grief, and call'd his boy, 
(A pretty page with letter-bearing face,) 
And wrote his mistress to implore her grace; 
Her grace and pardon to implore, and some 
Small favour for the battle, now to come, — 
A glove, a string, aught but a cruel No, 
To plume his next day's pounce upon the foe. 
The page returns with doubt upon his eyes, 
And brings a packet which his lord unties. 
" My lady wrote not, saw me not," he said, 
" But sends that answer to the note instead." 
"This string," exclaims the knight,— "Cut it." 

They lift 
A lid of pasteboard, and behold a shift ! 



178 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 



CANTO II. 

" Now whether shame she means me, or my bliss," 
The knight he cries, " thank her for this, for this !" 
And as he spoke, he smother'd up a kiss : — 
" To-morrow sees me panoplied indeed, 
And blessed be the thought shall clasp me while I 
bleed 1" 

Next day the lists are set, the trumpets blown, 
And grace requested for a knight unknown, 
Who summons, and to mortal fight defies, 
Three lordly knights for most unlordly calumnies. 
What calumnies they are, he need not tell; 
Their names and consciences will serve as well. 
The names are then resounded through the place, 
And tow'rds the entrance turns the universal face. 

With scorn and rage the sturdy gallants hear, 
And ask what madman wants a sepulchre; 
But when the stranger, with his face unshown, 
Rides in, accoutred in a shift alone, 
(For on his trunk at least was nought beside) 
The doubtful laughter in amazement died. 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 179 

'Twas clear the champion would be drench'd with 

wounds, 
Yet see how calm he rides the accustom' d rounds ! 
His mould is manly as the lawn is frail, 
A shield is on his arm, his legs and thighs in mail ; — 
The herald's laws forbid a wounded steed; — 
All strain their eyes, and on the shift they read, 
Written in black, and answering to the part 
The motto spoke of, " It has touch'd her heart." 

To admiration deep th' amazement turns, 
The dumbness to discourse, which deeply burns; 
Till the four parties to their posts fall in, 
And soft eyes dazzle, ere the blows begin. 

No stint or measure in his gallantry 
The stranger knew; but took at once all three: 
The trumpets blew their blast of bloody weather, 
The swords are out, the warriors rush together, 
And with such bulk and tempest comes the 

knight, 
One of the three is overborne outright, 
Saddle and man, and snaps his wrist. The wretch 
Proclaims his rage and torture in a screech. 
The three had thought to save the shift, and bring 
The wearer down, for laughter to the king : 
k2 



180 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

But seeing what they see, and both on fire 
To reach him first, they turn and charge in ire, 
And mix the fight; and such a storm succeeds 
Of clatt'ring shields, and helms, and hurtling 

steeds, 
With such a toil pell-mell, now that, now this, 
Above, beneath, and rage of hit and miss, 
And horses half on ground, or staring high, 
And crouching skill, and trampling sovereignty, 
That never was beheld a sight so fit 
To baffle and turn pale the gazer's wit. 
Nathless such skill the marv'llous knight display'd, 
The shift some time was spotless as the maid ; 
Till a great gush proclaiming blood was drawn, 
Redder and redder grew the dainty lawn, 
And drench'd and dripping, not a thread there 

stood, 
But what was bath'd in his benignant blood. 
Sudden he turn'd; and whirling like a wheel, 
In both their teeth sent round the whistling steel ; 
Then with a jovial wrist, he flash'd it down, 
And cleft the right man's shoulder to the bone; 
Who fell, and like the first was borne aside : 
" Is it a devil, or a saint ?" they cried : 
A tenderer murmur midst the ladies ran : 
With tears they bless'd " the angel of a man." 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 181 

The gallant lord was now the only foe, 
And fresh he seem'd : the knight could not be so ; 
In that last blow his strength must have been 

summ'd ; 
His arm appears unhing'd, his brain benumb'd; 
And as the sword seems carving him to death, 
At ev'ry gash the crowd draw in their breath, 
Sudden the blades are snapp'd; the clubs of 

steel 
Are call'd; the stranger is observ'd to reel; 
Then grasps with both his hands the saddle-bow, 
And bends for breath; the people cry "No ! No !" 
And all the court unconsciously arise : 
The ladies on the king turn weeping eyes, 
And manly pray'rs are mix'd with sobs and cries. 
The monarch was about to part the fight, 
When, his club brought, sore passion seized the 

knight, 
Who grasp'd it, rais'd it like an iron frown, 
And rising in his stirrups, sent it down : 
It met the other's, taking heavier pains, 
And dash'd it, club and helmet, in his brains. 
A stifled shriek is heard, the victim falls, 
The victor too : " Help ! Help 1" the monarch 

calls ; 
A shout, half terror, shakes the suburb walls. 



182 THE GENTLE ARMOUR 

His helm unloos'd, they recognise the face 
Of the best knight that ever bore disgrace, 
Now seeming dead, and gone to his long rest 
In comfort cold of that hard-hearted vest. 
The loveliest ladies kiss him as he lay, 
Then watch the leech, who cuts his vest away, 
And clears his wounds. The weeping dames ^ 

prepare 
Linen and balms, and part his forlorn hair, 
And let upon his face the blessed air. 

Meanwhile the tidings to his mistress come, 
Who clasps her hands and for a while is dumb ; 
Then owns the secret why the shift was sent, 
But said he far exceeded what she meant. 
Pale and despairing to the spot she flies. 
Where in his death-like rest her lover lies, 
And prays to be let in : — they let her in : 
She sees his hands laid straight, and his pale chin, 
Nor dares advance to look upon his face, 
Till round her come the ladies in the place, 
Who comfort her, and say she must complete 
The cure, and set her in the nurse's seat. 

All day she watch'd, all night, and all next day, 
And scarcely turn'd her face, except to pray, 



THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 183 

Till the tliird morn; when, breathing with a moan, 
And feeling the soft hand that clasp'd his own, 
He woke, and saw the face that had not ceas'd 
To haunt his thoughts, in forest or at feast, 
Visibly present, sweet with begging fears, 
And eyes that lov'd him through remorseful tears. 
Ah ! love is a soft thing ; and strongest eyes 
Might answer as his did, with wells of balmy 
rise. 



What need I say ? a loitering cure is his, 
But full of sweets, and precious memories, 
And whispers, laden from the land of bliss. 
Sir Hugo with the lark has left his bed; 
'Tis June; 'tis lover's month; in short, they wed. 
But how 1 like other people, you suppose, 
In silks and state, as all good story goes. 
The bridegroom did, and never look'd so well, 
Not e'en when in the shift he fought pell-mell: 
But the fair bride, instead of things that bless 
Wedding-day eyes, display'd a marvellous dress, — 
Marvellous, and homely, and in open sight; 
The people were so mov'd, they wept outright. 

For lo ! with hair let loose about her ears, 
And taper in her hand the fair appears, 



184 THE GENTLE ARMOUR. 

And naked feet, a rosy saint at shrift, 
And round her bosom hangs the ruddy shift : 
Tatter'd it hangs, all cut and carv'd to rags; \ 
Not fairer droop, when the great organ drags L 
Its thunders forth, a church's hundred flags. I 

With glimmering tears she hastens to his feet, 
And kneels to kiss them in the public street, 
Then takes his hand, and ere she will arise, 
Entreats for pardon at his gracious eyes; 
And hopes he will not scorn her love for life, 
As his most humble and most honour' d wife. 

Awhile her lord, with manly deference, stood 
Wrapt in the sweetness of that angel mood; 
Then stoop'd, and on her brow his soul impress'd, 
And at the altar thus the bride was dress' d. 



L'ENVOY. 

To her, who loves all peaceful glory, 

Therefore laurell'd song and story; 

Who, as blooming maiden should, 

Married blest, with young and good; 

And whose zeal for healthy duties 

Set on horseback half our beauties ; 

Hie thee, little book,* and say — 

(Blushing for leave unbegg'd alway; 

And yet how beg it for one flower 

Cast in the path of Sovereign Power ?) 

Say that thy verse, though small it be, 

Yet mov'd by ancient minstrelsy 

To sing of youth escap'd from age, 

Scenes pleasant, and a Palfrey sage, 

And meditated, morn by morn, 

Among the trees where she was born, 

Dares come, on grateful memory's part, 

Not to Crown'd Head, but to Crown'd Heart. 

* The Palfrey was originally published in a book by itself. 



THE PALFREY. 



The following story is a variation of one of the most amusing of 
the old French narrative poems that preceded the time of Chaucer, 
with additions of the writer's invention. The original, which he 
did not see till it was completed, is to be found in the collection of 
Messrs. Barbazan and Meon (Fabliaux et Contes des Poetes Fran- 
cois des 11, 12, 13, 14, et 15* Sticks, &c. Edition 1808). His 
own originals were the prose abridgment of M. Le Grand (Fabliaux, 
&c, third edition, volume the fourth), and its imitation in verse 
by Messrs. Way and Ellis, inserted in the latter' s notes to the select 
translations from Le Grand by the former of those gentlemen. 

The scene of the old story, — the only known production of a 
poet named Huon le Eoi (possibly one of the " Kings of the Min- 
strels," often spoken of at that period), — is laid in the province of 
Champagne ; but as almost all the narrative poems under the title 
of Lays (of which this is one) are with good reason supposed to 
have had their source in the Greater or Lesser Britain — that is to 
say, either among the Welsh of this island, or their cousins of 
French Brittany, and as the only other local allusions in the poem 
itself are to places in England, the author has availed himself of 
the common property in these effusions claimed for the Anglo-Nor- 
man Muse, 

" Begirt with British and Armorick knights," 

to indulge in a licence universal with the old minstrels, and 
lay the scene of his version where and w r hen he pleased ; to wit, 
during the reign of Edward the First, and in Kensington, Hendon, 
and their neighbourhoods, — old names, however new they sound. 
There is reason to believe, that the woody portions of Kensington, 
still existing as the Gardens, and in the neighbourhood of Holland 
House, are part of the ancient forest of Middlesex, w r hich extended 
from this quarter to the skirts of Hertfordshire : and it is out of 
regard for these remnants of the old woods, and associations with 
them still more grateful, that he has placed the scene of his 
heroine's abode on the site of the existing palace, and the closing 
scene of the poem in the hall of the De Veres, Earls of Oxford, who 
are supposed to have had a mansion at that period in the grounds 
of the present Holland House, near the part called the Moats. 



THE PALFKEY. 187 



PART FIRST. 

The palfrey goes, the pa]frey goes, 

Merrily well the palfrey goes ; 
He carrieth laughters, he carrieth woes, 

Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes. 

'Tis June, and a bright sun burnetii all. 

Sir William hath gallop' ci from Henclon Hall 

To Kensington, where in a thick old wood 

(!NTow its fair Gardens) a mansion stood, 

Half like fortress, and half like farm, 

A house which had ceas'd to be threaten' d with harm. 

The gates frown'd still, for the dignity's sake, 

With porter, portcullis, and bit of a lake ; 

But ivy caress'd their warm old ease, 

And the young rooks chuckled across the trees, 

And burning below went the golden bees. 

The spot was the same, where on a May morn 

The Rose that toppeth the world was born. 

Sir William hath gallop'd, and well was bent 
His palfrey to second a swift intent; 
And yet, having come, he delayeth his knock, 
E'en though a sweet maiden counteth the clock 



188 



THE PALFREY. 



Till she meet his eye from behind the chair, 
Where sitteth Sir Guy with his old white hair. 
But the youth is not rich; and day by day 
Sir Guy groweth cold, and hath less to say, 
And daunteth his wit with haws and hums, 
Coughing with grandeur, and twirling his thumbs, 
Till visiting turneth to shame and gall, 
And Sir William must speak what endangereth all. 

Now for any deed else, in love or in war, 
Knight bolder was none than the knight De la Barre 
(So styled by the king, from a traitor tall, 
Whom he pitch' d over barriers, armour and all) ; 
Short distance made he betwixt point and hilt; 
He was not a man that at tourney and tilt 
Sat bowing to every fair friend he could spy, 
Or bearing his fame with a fine cold eye : 
A hundred sweet eyes might be watching his own; 
He thought but of two, and of steeds to be thrown ; 
And the trumpets no sooner blew mights to mights, 
Than crash went his onset and down went knights. 

And thus in his love for sweet Anne de Paul, 
Though forc'd to some stealths, 'twas honest withal : 
He wooed, though the old man ever was by, 
With talk such as fixeth a maiden's eye, 



THE PALFREY. 189 

With lore and with legends, earnest of heart, 
And an art that applied them, sprung out of no 

art, 
Till stealth for his sake seem'd truth's own right, 
And at an old casement long clos'd, one night, 
Through boughs never dry, in a pathless nook, 
Love's breathless delight in his vows she took. 
Ah ! never thenceforth, by sunniest brook, 
Did the glittering cherry-trees beat the look 
Of the poor-growing stems in the pathless nook. 

But, alas ! to plead love unto loving eyes, 
And to beg for its leave of the worldly wise, 
All humility sweet on the one side lies, 
And all on the other that mortifies. 

Sir William hath swallow'd a sigh at last, 
Big as his heart, and the words have pass'd : 
" I love your daughter, Sir Guy," quoth he, 
" And though I'm not rich, yet my race may be; 
A race with a scutcheon as old as the best, 
Though its wealth lies at Acre in holy rest. 
Mine uncle, your friend, so blithe and old, 
Hath nobody nigher to leave his gold : 
The king hath been pleas'd to promise my sword 
The picking of some great Frenchman's hoard; 



190 THE PALFREY. 

And sire, meantime, should not blush for wife; 

Soft as her hand should fare her life ; 

My rents, though small, can support her state, 

And I'd fight for the rest till I made them great. 

Touch safe to endure that I seek her love : 

I know she resembles the blest above; 

Her face would paint sweeter a monarch's bower, 

Though glory and grace were in every flower : 

But angels on monarchs themselves look down, 

And love is to love both coffer and crown." 

Sir William ended, he scarce knew why, 
(But 'twas pity of self, to move pity thereby,) 
With a sad, perchance with an abject sigh, 
And stoop'd and kiss'd the hand of Sir Guy : 
Steady and sharp was the old man's eye. 

"Sir William, no doubt, is a bold young 
knight," 
Quoth he, " and my daughter a beauty bright; 
And a beauty bright and a bold young man 
Have suited, I wot, since the world began. 
But the man that is bold and hath money beside, 
Cometh best arm'd for a beauteous bride. 
The court will be riding this way next week, 
To honour the earl's fat cninmey reek; 



THE PALFREY. 191 

And softly will many a bold bright eye 

Fall on the face no face conies nigh. 

You speak of mirth, and you speak of age, 

Not in a way very civil or sage. 

Your kinsman, the friend whom you call so old, 

But ten years less than myself hath told : 

And I count not this body so ancient still, 

As to warrant green years to talk of my will. 

Let him come if he please (I shall greet the friend) 

And show me which way his post-obits tend, 

And then we can parley of courtings best; 

Till when, I advise you to court his chest." 

Sir William he boweth as low as before, 
And after him closeth the soft room door, 
And he moaneth a moan, and half staggereth he ; 
He doubteth which way the stairs may be. 
But the lower his bow, and the deeper his moan, 
The redder the spot in his cheek hath grown, 
And he loatheth the kiss to the hard old hand. 



" May the devil," thought he, " for his best new 
brand, 
Pluck it, and strike to his soul red-hot ! 
Why scorn me, and mock me? and why, like a sot, 
Must I stoop to him, low as his own court-plot ? 



192 THE PALFREY. 

Will any one tell us, — will Nature declare, — 
How father so foul can have daughter so fair 1 
But her mother of angels dreamt in her sorrow, 
And hence came this face — this dimpled May-morro w." 

And as he thought thus, from a door there stole 
A hand in a tremble, a balm to his soul; 
And soft though it trembled, it close wrung his, 
And with it a letter; — and gone it is. 

Sir William hath dash'd in the forest awhile, 
His being seems all a hasty smile : 
And there, by green light and the cooing of doves, 
He readeth the letter of her he loves, 
And kisseth and readeth again and again ; 
His bridle is dropp'd on his palfrey's mane, 
Who turneth an ear, and then, wise beast, 
Croppeth the herbage, — a prudent feast : 
For Sir William no sooner hath read nine times, 
Than he deemeth delay the worst of crimes : 
He snatcheth the bridle, and shakes it hard, 
And is off for his life on the loud green sward ; 
He foameth up steep, and he hisseth in stream, 
And saluteth his uncle like one in a dream. 

" Sir William, Sir William, what chase is this 1 
Have you slain a fat buck, or stolen a kiss; 



THE PALFREY. 193 

And is all the world, on account of his wife, 
After poor dripping Sir William's life 1" 

" Most honour d of kinsmen," Sir William cried, 
" Nought have I stolen, but hope of a bride; 
Her father, no Christian like her, but a Jew, 
Would make me disburse; which grieveth her too. 
You know who she is, but have yet to know, 
What a rose in the shade of that rock could grow ; 
What fulness of beauty on footstalk light; 
What a soul for sweet uncle to love at sight. 
Ah ! Sir, she loveth your own blithe fame, 
And dareth, she saith, in your sister's name 
Entreat me the loan of some fields of corn, 
Which her dowry shall buy on the bridal mom. 
I blush, dear uncle ; I drop mine eye-lids ; 
Yet who should blush when a lady bids 1 
'Tis lending me bliss ; 'tis lending me life; 
And she'll kiss you withal, saith the rosy wife." 

" Ah, ha !" quoth Sir Grey, with his twinkling eyes: 
" The lass, I see, is both merry and wise ; 
I call her to mem'ry, an earnest child, 
!Nbw looking straight at you, now laughing wild : 
'Tis now — let me see — five long years ago, 
And that's a good time for such buds to blow. 
o 



194 THE PALFREY. 

"Well, — dry your outside, and moisten your in ; 
This wine is a bud of my oldest bin; 
And we'll talk of the dowry, and talk of the day, 
And see if her bill be good, boy, eh V 9 

Sir Grey didn't say, You're my sister's son, 
I have left you my gold, and your work is done. — 
He hated to speak of his gold, like death ; 
And he lov'd a good bill as he lov'd his breath ; 
And yet, for all that, Sir Grey, I trow, 
Was a very good man, as corn-dealers go. 

So the lover hath seiz'd the new old hand, 
And kiss'd it, as though it had given the land, 
And invok'd on its bounty such bliss from above, 
Thought he, " Of a truth, I am mean in love." 
But free was his fervor from any such vice ; 
For when obligation's more fitting than nice, 
We double the glow of our thanks and respect, 
To hide from th' obliger his own defect. 

" That palfrey of thine 's a good palfrey, Will; 
He holdeth his head up, and danceth still, 
And trippeth as light by the ostler's side, 
As though just saddled to bear your bride; 
And yet, by Saint Richard, as drench'd is he 
And as froth'd as though just out of the sea: 



THE PALFREY. 195 

Methinks I hear Mm just landed free, 
Shaking him and his saddle right thunderously. 
And he starteth at nothing ¥ 

" ISTo more than the wall." 
" And is sure of his footing ¥ 

" As monarch in hall. 
He's a thunder in fight, and a thief on the road, 
So swiftly he speedeth whatever his load ! 
Yet round the wolfs den half a day will he hover, 
And carrying a lady, takes heed like a lover." 
"And therefore Sir William will part with him 

never ¥ 
" Nay, uncle, he will ; — for ever and ever." 
" And what such a jewel may purchase, I pray ¥ 
" Thanks, thanks, dearest uncle, and not saying Nay. 
Now prythee deny me not grace so small : 
The palfrey in truth is comely withal, 
And you still shall lend him to bear my bride; 
But whom, save our help, should he carry beside ¥ 
"Tmvex'd." 

"For pity." 

"I'mgriev'd." 

" Now pray." 
" 'Tis cheap," thought the uncle, " this not saying 

Nay." 



o2 



196 THE PALFREY. 



PART SECOND. 



The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes, 

Merrily ever the palfrey goes ; 
Nought he carrieth now but woes, 

And yet full well the palfrey goes. 

Sik Grey and Sir Guy, like proper old boys, 
Have met, with a world of coughing and noise ; 
And after subsiding, judiciously dine, 
Serious the venison, and chirping the wine. 
They talk of the court, now gathering all 
To the sunny plump smoke of Earl-Mount Hall : 
And pity their elders laid up on the shelves, 
And abuse every soul upon earth but themselves : 
Only Sir Grey doth it rather to please, 
And Sir Guy out of honest old spite and disease : 
Eor Sir Guy hath a face so round and so red, 
The whole of his blood seemeth hanging his head, 
While Sir Grey's red face is waggish and thin, 
And he peereth with upraised nose and chin. 

Nathless Sir Grey excepteth from blame 
His nephew Sir Will, and his youthful fame; 
And each soundeth t'other, to learn what hold 
The youth and the lady may have of his gold. 



THE PALFREY. 197 

Alas ! of his gold will neither speak, 

Tho' the wine it grew strong, and the tongue grew weak ; 

And when the sweet maiden herself appears, 

With a breath in her bosom, and blush to her ears, 

And the large thankful eyes of the look of a bride, 

Sir Grey recollecteth no creature beside : 

He watcheth her in, he watcheth her out ; 

He measureth her ankle, but not with his gout; 

He chucketh, like chanticleer over a corn, 

And thinks it but forty years since he was born. 

"Why, how now, Sir Grey 1 methinks you growyoung : 
How soon are your own wedding bells to be rung ? 
You stare on my daughter, like one elf-struck." 



" Alas ! and I am, — the sadder my luck : — 
Albeit, Sir Guy, your own shoulders count 
Years not many more than mine own amount, 
And I trust you don't feign to be too old to wed ?" 

"Hoh! hoh !" quoth Sir Guy; "that was cun- 
ningly said." 
(Yet he felt natter'd too, did the white old head.) 



"What are years?" continued Sir Grey, looking bold; 
" There are men never young, and men never old. 



198 THE PALFKEY. 

Old and young lips may carol in tune; 
Green laugheth the oak 'gainst the brown mid June. 
Lo ! dapper Sir Kit, with his large young wife ; 
His big-legged babes are the pride of his life." 

Sir Guy shook his head. 

" And the stout old lord, 
Whose wife sitteth front him so meek at his board." 

" Ay, ay," quoth Sir Guy, " and stuffeth so fast, 
His eyesight not reaching the lady's repast." 

" Well, well," quoth Sir Grey— 

"111, ill," quoth Sir Guy; 
"The children of old men full well I descry; 
They look, by Saint Christendom ! old as them- 
selves ; 
Are dwarf d, are half wither'd; they grin like elves." 

" They may," quoth Sir Grey, " when both parents 
are old, 
Or when the old parent is wrinkle-soul'd ; 
But not when he's hearty and merry as we. 
You grieve me, Sir Guy. Oh ! 'tis doleful to see 
How vainly a friend may come here for a bride, 
Though he loveth the daughter, and father beside." 



THE PALFRET. 199 

" Your pardon, your pardon, dear Mend/' crieth Guy : 
"What, you? "What, Sir Grey with his ever-bright eye? 
We talk'd of the old, but who talk'd of Sir Grey? 
But speak ye right soberly ? mean what ye say P 

" Ay, truly I do," with a sigh crieth Grey ; 
" As truly as souls that for Paradise pray. 
And hark ye, dear friend; you'll miss your sweet Anne, 
If she weddeth, I wot, some giddy young man. 
He'll bear her away, and be lov'd alone, 
And wish, and yet grudge, your very tomb-stone. 
Now give her to me, I'll give her my gold, 
And I'll give to yourself my wood and my wold, 
And come and live here, and we'll house together, 
And laugh o'er our cups at the winter weather." 

" A bargain ! a bargain !" cried old Sir Guy, 
With a stone at his heart, and the land in his eye; 
" Your hand to the bargain, my dear old friend : 
My ' old' did I call thee ? My world without end. 
I'll bustle her straight ; and to keep all close, 
You shall carry her with you, ere creature knows, 
Save Rob, and Sir Rafe, and a few beside, 
For guests and for guards to the travelling bride ; 
And so, ere the chattering court come down, 
Wed her at home in your own snug town."' 



200 THE PALFREY. 

Now a murrain, I say, on those foul old men! 
I never, myself, shall see fifty again, 
And can pity a proper young-blooded old fellow, 
Whose heart is green, though his cheek be yellow; 
For Nature, albeit she never doth wrong, 
Yet seemeth in such to keep youth too long : 
And 'tis grievous when such an one seeth his bliss 
In a face which can see but the wrinkles in his. 
Ah ! pray let him think there are dames not young, 
For whom the bells yet might be handsomely rung. 
Tis true, grey-beards have been, like Jove's of old, 
That have met a young lip, nor been thought too bold. 
In Norfolk a wondrous old lord hath been seen, 
"Who at eighty was not more than forty, I ween ; 
And I myself know a hale elderly man, 
In face and in frolic a very god Pan. 
But marvels like these are full rare, I wis : 
And when elders in general young ladies would kiss, 
I exhort the dear souls to fight and to flee, 
Unless they should chance to run against me. 

Alas ! I delay as long as I can, 
For who may find words for thy grief, sweet Anne ? 
'Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to- 
morrow, 
Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow. 



THE PALFREY. 201 

) 



She fainteth, she prayeth, she feeleth sore ill; 
She wringeth her hands ; she cannot stand still ; 



She tasteth the madness of wonder and will ; — 

Nor, sweet though she was, had she yielded at last, 

Had Sir Guy not his loathly old plethora cast 

In the scale against love and its life-long gains, 

And threaten'd her fears for his bursting veins. 

"I'll wed him," she wrote to Sir William; — "yes; 

But nothing on earth — " and here her distress 

Broke off, and she wept, and the tears fell hot 

On the paper, and made a great starry blot. 

Alas ! tears and letter burn under the eye 

Of watchful, unmerciful, old Sir Guy ; 

And so on a night, when all things round, 

Save the trees and the moon, were sleeping sound, 

From his casement in shadow he sees his child, 

Bent in her weeping, yet alway mild, 

The fairest thing in the moon's fair ray, 

Borne like some bundle of theft away ; 

Borne by a horde of old thieves away, 

The guests and the guards of false Sir Grey. 

She pray'd, but she spake out aloud no word; 
She wept, but no breath of self-pity was heard : 
Her woe was a sight for no dotards to see; 
And yet not bereft of all balm was she; 



202 THE PALFREY. 

One balm there was left her, one strange but rare, 

Nay, one in the shape of a very despair; 

To wit, the palfrey that wont to bear 

The knight De la Barre on his daily way 

To her, and love, and false Sir Grey. 

Him it had borne, her now it bore ; 

And weeping sweet, though more and more, 

And praying for its master s bliss 

(Oh ! no true love will scoff at this), 

She stoop' d, and gave its neck a kiss. 

PAET THIRD. 

The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes, 
Merrily still the palfrey goes ; 

He goes a path he never chose, 
Yet still full well the palfrey goes. 

Could the sweet moon laugh, its light 
Had surely been convuls'd that night, 
To see fifteen old horsemen wag 
Their beards, to one poor maiden's nag; 
Fifteen old beards in chat and cough, 
Rumbling to keep the robbers off, 
And ever and aye, when lanes grew close, 
Following each the other's nose, 
And with the silver beam she cast 
Tipp'd, like every tree they pass'd. 



THE PALFREY. 203 

The owls they seem'd to hoot their folly 
With a staring melancholy. 

After jealous sort, I wis, 
Cull'd Sir Grey these guests of his, 
"Not a soul so young as he 
Gracing all his chivalry : 
Six there were, of toothless fame, 
"With each his man, of jaws as tame; 
Then his own, the palsiest there; 
And last, Sir Guy's, with whitest hair : 
And each had snugg'd him for the night 
In old flapp'd hat, and cap as white, 
In double cloak, and three-fold hose, 
Besides good drink to warm his toes, 
And so they jog it, beard and nose, 
And in the midst the palfrey goes; 
Oh! ever well the palfrey goes; 
He knows within him what he knows, 
And so, full well the palfrey goes. 

But in his hamlet hous'd apart, 
How far'd, meantime, Sir William's heart i 
Oh, when the sun first went to bed, 
"Not richer look'd the sun's own head, 
Nor cast a more all-gladdening eye : 
He seem'd to say, " My heav'n is nigh." 



204 THE PALFREY. 

For he had heard of rare delights 

Between those two old feasting knights, 

And of a pillion, new and fair, 

Ordain'd to go some road as rare ; 

With whom 1 For what sweet rider's art ? 

Whose, but the dancer s at his heart, 

The light, the bright, yet balmy she, 

And who shall fetch her home but he ? 

Who else be summon'd speedily 

By the kind uncle full of glee 

To fetch away that ecstasy ? 

So, ever since that news, his ear, 

Listening with a lofty fear, 

Lest it catch one sound too late, 

Stood open, like a palace gate 

That waits the bride of some great king, 

Heard with her trumpets travelling. 

At length a letter. Whose? Sir Guy's, 

The father's own. With reverent eyes, 

With heart, impatient to give thanks, 

And tears that top their glimmering banks, 

He opens, reads, turns pale as death; 

His noble bosom gasps for breath : 

His Anne has left his love for gold, 

But in her kindness manifold 

Extorted from his uncle's hoard 

Enough to leave him bed and board. 



THE PALFREY. 205 

All ! words like those were never Anne's ; 
Too plainly they the coarse old man's; 
But still the letter; still the fact; 
With pangs on pangs his heart is rack'd. 
Love is an angel, has no pride; 
She'll mourn his love when he has died : 
Yet love is truth; so hates deceit; 
He'll pass and scorn her in the street. 
"Now will he watch her house at night 
For glimpse of her by some brief light, 
Such as perhaps his own pale face 
May show : and then he'll quit the place. 
IsTow he will fly her, hate, detest, 
Mock ; make a by-word and a jest : 
Then he hates hate ; and who so low 
As strike a woman's fame ! No, no ; 
False love might spite the faithless Anne, 
But true was aye the gentleman. 

Thus paceth he, 'twixt calm and mad, 
Till the mid-watch, his chamber sad; 
And then lies down in his day-dress, 
And sleeps for very weariness, 
Catching and starting in his moan, 
And waking with a life-long groan. 
Sometimes he dreams his sorrow makes 
Such weeping wail, that, as he wakes, 



206 THE PALFREY. 

He lifts his pitying hand to try 

His cheek, and wonders it is dry. 

Sometimes his virgin bride and he 

Are hous'd for the first time, and free 

To dwell within each other's eyes ; 

And then he wakes with woful cries. 

Sometimes he hears her call for aid ; 

Sometimes beholds her bright arrayed, 

But pale, and with her eyes on earth ; 

And once he saw her pass in mirth, 

And look at him, nor eye let fall, 

And that was wofull'st dream of all. 

At length he hears, or thinks he hears, — 

(Or dreams he still with waking ears T) 

A tinkle of the house's bell ! 

What news can midnight have to tell 1 

He listens. No. ~No sound again. 

The breeze hath stirr'd the window-pane ; 

Perchance it was the tinkling glass; 

Perchance 'twas his own brain, alas ! 

His own weak brain, which hears the blood 

Pulse at his ears, — a tingling flood, 

Strange mantler in as strange a cup. 

Yet hark again ! — he starts, leans up; 

It seems to fear to wake a mouse, 

That sound; — then peals, and wakes the house. 



THE PALFKEY. 207 

But first, to end what I began, 
The journey of sweet houseless Anne. 

PART FOURTH. 

The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes, 

Merry and well the palfrey goes ; 
You cannot guess till time disclose, 

How perfectly well the palfrey goes. 

Ah ! dream Sir William what he might, 
Little he dreamt the truth that night. 
Could but some friend have told him all, 
How had he spurr'd from Hendon Hall, 
And dash'd among the doting set, 
"Who bore away that soft cheek wet ! 
How had the hills by which they go, 
Re-echo'd to his dire " Hallo !" 
Startling the waking farmers' ears 
With thoughts of thieves and murderers, 
And scattering wide those owlish men, 
While close he clasp'd his dove again. 
But where I left them, safe go they, 
Their drowsy noses droop'd alway 
To meet the beard's attractive nest, 
Push'd upwards from the muffled breast. 
Drowsy they nod, and safe they go ; 
Sir Grey's good steeds the country know, 



208 THE PALFPvEY. 

And lead the rest full soft and well, 
Till snore on snore begins to swell, 
Warm as owl-plumage, toned as bell; 
True snores, composed of spices fine, 
Supper, fresh air, and old mull'd wine. 
At first they wake with start and fright, 
And sniff and stare with all their might, 
And sit, one moment, bolt upright: 
But soon reverts each nodding crown : 
It droops, it yields, it settles down; 
Till in one snore, sincere and deep, 
The whole grave train are fast asleep. 
Sir Grey, the youngest, yields the last : 
Besides, he held two bridles fast, 
The lady's palfrey having shown 
Much wish to turn up lanes unknown. 
Even sweet Anne can war not long 
With sleep, the gentle and the strong; 
And as the fingers of Sir Grey 
By fine degrees give dulcet way, 
And leave the happy beast his will, 
The only creatures waking still 
And free to go where fancy leads, 
Are the twice eight bit-mumbling steeds. 
Some few accordingly turn round, 
Their happy memories homeward bound, 



THE PALFREY. 209 

And soon awake their jolted lords, 

Who bless themselves from bandit hordes, 

And thinking they have only lagg'd, 

Are willingly half jellybagg'd. 

The rest, — the palfrey meek as any, — 

Jog still onward with the many ; 

Passing now by Kilburn rill, 

And now by Hainpstead's leaf-stirr'd hill, 

Which lulls them still as they descend 

The sylvan trough of sweet North-end, 

And till they reach thy plot serene 

And bowery granges, Golders-green. 

Now Golders-Green had then a road 
(The same as that just re-bestow'd) 
Which cross'd the main road, and went straight 
To Finchley, and Sir Grey's own gate; 
And thither (every sleeper still 
Depending on his horse's will), 
Thither, like sheep, turns every head 
That follows where the sagest led, — 
All but the palfrey's. He, good beast, 
From his new master's clutch releas'd, 
And longing much his old to see, 
His stalls, and all his bounty free 



210 THE PALFKEY. 

(For poor Sir William's household ways 
Were nobler than the rich Sir Grey's), 
Goes neither to the right nor left, 
But straight as honesty from theft, 
Straight as the dainty to the tooth, 
Straight as his lady's love and truth, 
Straight for the point, the best of all, 
Sir William's arms and Hendon Hall. 

!Not far from where we left them all, 
Those steeds and sires, was Hendon Hall, 
Some twice four hundred yards or so; 
And steeds to stables quickly go. 
The lady wakes with the first start ; 
She cries aloud; she cowers at heart; 
And looks around her in affright 
On the wide, lonely, homeless night; 
Then checks, as sharply as she may 
(Not yet aware how blest his way), 
Her eager friend; and nighly faints, 
And calls on fifty gentle saints, 
And, if she could, would close her eyes, 
For fear of thieves and sorceries, 
Of men all beard and blood, and calls 
Over lone fields, and lighted palls, 



THE PALFREY. 211 

And elves that ever, as you go, 
Skip at your side with mop and mow, 
With gibbering becks and moony stares, 
Forcing your eyes to look on theirs. 

And see ! the moon forsakes the road ; 
She lifts her light to whence it flow'd : 
Has she a good or ill bestow'd, 
That thus her light forsakes the road ? 
The owls they hoot with gloomier cry; 
They seem to see a murder nigh : 
And how the palfrey snorts and pulls ! 
Now Mary help poor wandering fools ! 
The palfrey pulls, and he must go ; 
The lady's hand may not say No. 
And go he does; the palfrey goes; 
He carrieth now no longer woes; 
For she, e'en she, now thinks she knows 
Sweet Anne begins to think she knows 
Those gathering huts, those poplar rows, 
That water, falling as it flows, 
This bridge o'er which the palfrey goes, 
This gate, at which he stops, and shows 
His love to it with greeting nose. 
Ah ! surely recollects she well 
All she has heard her lover tell 
p2 



212 THE PALFREY. 

Of this same gate, and that same bell : 
And she it was, you guess full well, 
That pull'd, and pull'd again, that bell; 
And down her love has come pell-mell 
With page, and squire, and all who ran, 
And was the first to find his Anne, — 
Was a most mad and blissful man, 
Clasping his fainting, faithful Anne. 

PAET FIFTH. 

The palfrey goes, the palfrey goes ; 

His work is done, you may suppose. 
No: — double burden now he knows, 

Yet well for ever the palfrey goes. 

The bells in many a giddy ring 
Run down the wind to greet the King, 
Who comes to feast, for service done, 
With Earl De Yere at Kensington, 
And brings with him his constant grace 
Queen Eleanor, that angel's face. 

In many-footed order free 
First ride his guards, all staid to see; 
In midst of whom the trumpets blow, 
Straight as power and glory go ; 



THE PALFBEY. 



213 



And then his lords and knights, each one 
A manly splendour in the sun; 
And then his lofty self appears, 
Calmer for the shouts he hears, 
With his Queen the courteous-eyed, 
Like strength and sweetness side by side; 
And thus, his banner steering all, 
Rides the King to Earl-Mount HalL 

Meantime, ere yet the sovereign pair 
"Were threading London's closer air, 
An humbler twain, heart-link'd as they, 
Were hearing larks and scenting hay, 
And coming, too, to Earl-Mount Hall 
Through many a green lane's briery wall, 
Many a brier and many a rose, 
And merrily ever the palfrey goes, 
Merrily though he carrieth two, 
And one hath sometimes great ado 
To sit while o'er the ruts he goes, 
Nor clasp the other doubly close, 
Who cannot chuse but turn, and then — 
Why, if none see, he clasps again. 
" Ah," thinks the lady, as she looks 
Through tears and smiles with half-rebukes, 



214 THE PALFREY. 

" Ah, must my father break his heart % 
For surely now we never part." 

Behind, some furlong off, and 'twixt 
Those winding oaks with poplars niix'd, 
Come two upon a second steed, 
Male, too, and female; not indeed 
The female young and fair as t' other : 
She is the page's honour'd mother. 
Much talk they on the road; — at least 
Much talks the mother; while the beast 
Pulls at the hedges as he goes, 
Pricking oft his tossing nose; 
And the page, though listening, sees 
Newts in the brooks and nests in trees. 
Lastly a hound, tongue-lolling, courses 
To and fro 'twixt both the horses, 
Giving now some weasel chase, 
And loving now his master's face, 
And so, with many a turn and run, 
Goes twenty furlongs to their one. 

This riding double was no crime 
In the first great Edward's time ; 
"No brave man thought himself disgrac'd 
By two fair arms about his waist; 



THE PALFREY. 215 

Nor did the lady blush vermilion, 
Dancing on the lover's pillion. 
Why 1 Because all modes and actions 
Bow'd not then to Yulgar Fractions; 
Nor were tested all resources 
By the power to purchase horses. 

Many a steed yet won had he, 
Our lover, in his chivalry; 
For, in sooth, full half his rents 
Were ransoms gain'd in tournaments; 
But all, save these, were gone at present. — 
Ah ! the green lane still was pleasant. 

Hope was theirs. For one sweet hour 
Did they, last night, in bliss devour 
Each others questions, answers, eyes, 
Nor ever for divine surprise 
Could take a proper breath, much less 
The supper brought in hastiness 
By the glad little gaping page; 
While rose meantime his mother sage 
To wait upon the lady sweet, 
And snore discreetly on the seat 
In the oriel of the room, 
Whence gleam'd her night-cap through the gloom. 



216 THE PALFREY. 

Then parted they to lie awake 

For transport, spite of all heart-ache : 

For heaven's in any roof that covers, 

Any one same night, two lovers; 

They may be divided still; 

They may want, in all but will; 

But they know that each is there, 

Each just parted, each in prayer; 

Each more close, because apart, 

And every thought clasp'd heart to heart. 

Alas ! in vain their hearts agree ; 
Good must seem good, as well as be; 
And lest a spot should stain his flower 
For blushing in a brideless bower, 
Sir William with the lark must rise, 
And bear, — but whither bear ] — his prize : 
Not to Sir Grey's, for that were scorn; 
Not to Sir Guy's, to live forlorn; 
Not to some abbey's jealous care, 
For Heaven would try to wed her there; 
But to a dame that serv'd the Queen, 
His aunt, and no mean dame, I ween, — 
A dame of rank, a dame of honour, 
A dame (may earth lie green upon her !) 



THE PALFBEY. 217 

That felt for nature, love, and truth, 
And hated old age pawing youth : 
One that at no time held wrong right, 
Yet somehow took a dear delight, 
By secret measures, sweet and strong, 
In giving right a zest of wrong. 
To her Sir William brings his Anne 
Three hours before the feast began, 
But first has sent his page to spy 
How day has dawn'd with old Sir Guy. 
The page scarce vanish'd, re-appears, 
His eyes wide open as their ears, 
And tells how all the beards are there : 
All; — every mump of quivering hair, 
Come back with groan, and back with stare, 
To set Sir Guy upon the rack, 
And find the lady not come back. 

" Now God bless all their groans and stares, 
And eke their most irreverend hairs !" 
Cries the good dame, the Lady Maud, 
Laughing with all her shoulders broad : — 
" My budget bursteth sure with this ! 
This were a crowning galliardise 
For king himself to tell in hall, 
Against his lords' wit groweth small." 



218 THE PALFREY. 

And rustling in her vestments broad, 
Forth sails the laughing Lady Maud 
To tell the King and tell the Queen; 
But first she kiss'd sweet Anne between 
The sighing lips and downcast eyes, 
And said, " Old breaking hearts are lies." 

Three hours have come, three hours have gone ; 
King Edward, with his crownet on, 
Sits highest where the feast is set ; 
With wine the sweetest lips are wet; 
The music makes a heaven above, 
And underneath is talk of love. 

The King look'd out from where he sat, 
And cried " Sir Guy de Paul 1" Thereat 
The music stopp'd with awe and wonder, 
Like discourse when speaks the thunder; 
And the feasters, one and all, 
Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul. 



"How chanceth it, Sir Guy de Paul, 
Your daughter graceth not the call 
To the feast at Earl-Mount Hall ? 
My friends here boast her like the Queen: 
What maketh such a face unseen V 



THE PALFREY. 219 

" Sir," quoth Sir Guy, " a loyal breast 
Hath brought a man here sore distress' d. 
My daughter, through device, 'tis fear'd, 
Of some false kuight, hath disappear'd." 

" Hah !" quoth the King, " since when, I pray 1 
They tell me, 'twas but yesterday 
That she was mark'd, for two long hours, 
Praying behind her window-flowers." 

" Alas ! sir, 'twas at night. — Forgive 
My failing speech. I scarcely live 
Till I have sought her, high and low, 
And know, what then the King shall know." 

" Now God confound all snares, and bring 
Base hearts to sorrow !" cried the King; 
" Myself will aid thee, and full soon. 
Ho ! master bard, good Rafe de Boon, 
Pinch thy fair harp, and make it tell 
Of those old thieves who slept so well." 

The minstrel bowed with blushing glee; 
His harp into his arms took he, 
And rous'd its pulses to a mood 
Befitting love and hardihood. 



220 THE PALFREY. 

Then, with his ready wit sincere, 

He sang to every tingling ear, 

How fifteen brave old beards, one night, 

Bore off one lady in a fright ; 

With what amazing knees they kept 

Their saddles, and how fiercely slept; 

And how a certain palfrey chose 

To leave them to their proud repose, 

And through the wildering night-time bear 

The lady to her lover's care. 

He named no names, he drew no face, 

Yet not a soul mistook the case ; 

Till by degrees, boards, tap'stries, rafters, 

Echoed the King's and feasters' laughters; 

And once again, all Earl-Mount Hall 

Gazed upon Sir Guy de Paul. 

But how the laughter raged and scream'd, 
When lo ! those fifteen beards all stream'd 
In at the great door of the hall ! 
Those very grey-beards, one and all, 
By the King's command in thrall, 
All mounted, and all scar'd withal, 
And scarlet as Sir Guy de Paul ! 
By heavens ! 'twas " merry in the hall," 
When every beard but those " wagg'd all." 



THE PALFREY. 221 

Out spoke the King with wrathful breath. 
Smiting the noise as still as death; 
" Are these the suitors to destroy 
My projects with new tales of Troy 1 
These the bold knights and generous lords 
To wed our heiresses and wards ? 
Now, too, while Frenchman and while Scot 
Have cost us double swords, God wot ! 
Are these replenishes of nations ? 
Begetters of great generations ? 
Out with them all ! and bring to light 
A fitter and a fairer sight." 

Queen Eleanor glanc'd down the hall, 
She pitied old Sir Guy de Paul, 
Who, while these doters went their way, 
Knew neither how to go nor stay, 
But sate bent close, his shame to smother, 
Bubbing one hand upon the other. 
A page she sent him, bright and mild, 
Who led him forth, like his own child. 

Out went the beards by a side door; 
The great one roll'd apart once more, 
And, as the King had given command, 
In rode a couple, hand in hand, 



222 THE PALFREY. 

Who made the stillness stiller: — lie 
A man to grace all jeopardy; 
And all a lovely comfort, she. 
The stalwart youth bestrode a steed, 
A Barbary, the King's own breed; 
The lady grac'd her palfrey still, 
Sweet beast, that ever hath his will, 
And paceth now beside his lord, 
Straight for the King at the high board, 
Till sharp the riders halt, and wait 
The speaking of the crowned state, — 
The knight with reverential eyes, 
Whose grateful hope no claim implies : 
The lady in a bashful glow, 
Her bosom billowing to and fro. 

" Welcome ! Sir William de la Barre," 
The monarch cried; "a right good star 
For ladies' palfreys led astray; 
And welcome his fair flower of May. 
By heavens ! I will not have my knights 
Defrauded of their lady rights. 
I give thee, William de la Barre, 
For this thy bride, and that thy scar 
Won from the big-limb'd traitor Pole, 
The day thou dash'dst out half his soul 



THE PALFKEY. 223 

And lett'st his ransom free, for ruth 
(For which thou wert a foolish youth), 
All those good meadows, lately his, 
Down by the Brent, where thy hall is, 
And all my rights in that same hall, 
Together with the osieries all 
That skirt the streams by down and dale, 
From Hendon into Perivale. 
And now dismount. And hark ye, there, 
Sir Priest, my chaplain Christopher, 
(See how the honest body dries 
The tears of claret in his eyes !) — 
Come and betroth these friends of mine, 
Till at the good Earl's chapel shrine 
Thy holy magic make them one : 
The King and Queen will see it done. 
But first a royal health to all 
The friends we leave in this fair hall; 
And may all knights' and ladies' horses 
Take, like the palfrey, vigorous courses I" 

With princely laughter rose the King, 
Rose all, the laughter echoing, 
Rose the proud wassail, rose the shout 
By the trumpets long stretch'd out; 



224: THE PALFEEY. 

You would have thought that roof and all 

Rose in that heart-lifted hall. 

On their knees are two alone ; 

The palfrey and the barb have gone : 

And then arose those two beside, 

And the music from its pride 

Falls into a beauteous prayer, 

Like an angel quitting air; 

And the King and his soft Queen 

Smile upon those two serene, 

Whom the priest, accosting bland, 

Puts, full willing, hand in hand. 

Ah scarcely even King and Queen 

Did they then perceive, I ween, 

Nor well to after-memory call, 

How they went from out that hall. 

"What more? Sir Guy, and then Sir Grey, 
Died each upon a fine spring day; 
And, in their hatred of things small, 
Left him, now wanting nothing, all : 
(All which, at least, that mighty claw 
Permitted them, yclept the law). 
The daughter wept, and wept the more 
To think her tears would soon be o'er; 



THE PALFREY. 225 

Sir William neither wept nor smil'd, 
But grac'd the father for the child, 
And sent, to join the funeral shows, 
Bearing scutcheons, bearing woes, 
The palfrey; and full well he goes; 
Oh! merrily well the palfrey goes; 
Grief, great as any there, he knows, 
Yet merrily ever the palfrey goes. 



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal 

sport, 
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the 

court ; 
The nobles fill'd the benches, and the ladies in their 

pride, 
And 'niongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one 

for whom he sigh'd : 
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning 

show, 
Yalour and love, and a king above, and the royal 

beasts below. 

Eamp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing 

jaws; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind 

went with their paws; 
With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on 

one another, 
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous 

smother ; 



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 227 

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through 

the air; 
Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better 

here than there." 

De Lorge's love o'erhearcl the King, a beauteous lively 

dame 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which alway 

seem'd the same; 
She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave 

can be; 
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love 

of me; 
King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is 

divine ; 
I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory will 

be mine. 

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at 

him and smil'd; 
He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions 

wild: 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd 

his place, 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the 

lady's face. 

Q2 



228 THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

"By Heav'n!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and lie 

rose from where he sat : 
" No love," quoth he, " but vanity, sets love a task 

like that."* 

* " Lions' Street took its name from the building and courts 
wherein were kept the King's great and small lions. One day, 
whilst Francis the First amused himself with looking at a combat 
between his lions, a lady having let her glove drop, said to De 
Lorges, * If you would have me believe that you love me as much 
as you swear you do, go and recover my glove.' De Lorges went 
down, took up the glove in the midst of these furious animals, 
returned, and threw it in the lady's face ; and notwithstanding all 
the advances she made, and all the arts she used, would never see 
her afterwards." 

Historical Essays upon Paris, translated from the French 

of M. de Saint Foix. (Lond. 1767.) Vol. i. p. 149. 

St. Foix quotes from Brantome. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold : — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ?" — The vision rais'd its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer' d, "The names of those who love the Lord."' 
" And is mine one?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerly still; and said, " I pray thee then, 
" Write me as one that loves his fellow men." 

The angel wrote, and vanish' d. The next night 
It came again with a great wakeoing light, 
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless' d, 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



GODIVA. 

INSCRIBED TO JOHN HUNTER. 

John Hunter, friend of Leigh Hunt's verse, and 

lover of all duty, 
Hear how the boldest naked deed was clothed in 

saintliest beauty. 

Earl Lefric by his hasty oath must solemnly abide; 

He thought to put a hopeless bar, and finds it turn'd 
aside ; 

His lady, to remove the toll that makes the land for- 
lorn, 

Will surely ride through Coventry, naked as she was 
born: 

She said — The people will be kind ; they love a gentle 
deed; 

They piously will turn from me, nor shame a friend in 
need. 

Earl Lefric, half in holy dread, and half in loving 

care, 
Hath bade the people all keep close, in penitence and 

prayer ; 



GODIVA. 231 

The windows are fast boarded up; nor hath a sound 

been heard 
Since y ester-eve, save household dog, or latest summer 

bird ; 
Only Saint Mary's bell begins at intervals to go, 
Which is to last till all be past, to let obedience knov/. 

The mass is said; the priest hath bless'd the lady's 

pious will; 
Then down the stairs she comes undress' d, but in a 

mantle still; 
Her ladies are about her close, like mist about a star; 
She speaks some little cheerful words, but knows not 

what they are ; 
The door is pass'd ; the saddle press'd ; her body feels 

the air; 
Then down they let, from out its net, her locks of 

piteous hair. 

Oh, then how every list'ner feels, the palfrey's foot 

that hears ! 
The rudest are awed suddenly, the soft and brave in 

tears ; 
The poorest that were most in need of what the lady 

did, 
Deem her a blessed creature born to rescue men forbid : 



232 GODIVA. 

He that had said they could have died for her beloved 

sake, 
Had rated low the thanks of woe. Death frights not 

old Heart-ache. 



Sweet saint ! No shameless brow was hers, who could 

not bear to see, 
For thinking of her happier lot, the pine of 

poverty : 
No unaccustom'd deed she did, in scorn of custom's 

self, 
She that but wish'd the daily bread upon the poor 

man's shelf. 
Naked she went, to clothe the naked. New she was, 

and bold, 
Only because she held the laws which Mercy preach' d 

of old. 

They say she blush'd to be beheld, e'en of her ladies' 

eyes; 
Then took her way with downward look, and brief, 

bewilder' d sighs. 
A downward look; a beating heart; a sense of the 

new, vast, 
Wide, open, naked world, and yet of every door she 

pass'd ; 



GODIVA. 233 

A pray'r, a tear, a constant mind, a listening ear that 

glow'd, 
These we may dare to fancy there, on that religious 

road. 

But who shall blind his heart with more ? Who dare, 

with lavish guess, 
Refuse the grace she hoped of us, in her divine distress? 
In fancy still she holds her way, for ever pacing on, 
The sight unseen, the guiltless Eve, the shame un- 

breath'd upon ; 
The step, that upon Duty's ear is growing more and 

more, 
Though yet, alas ! it hath to pass by many a scorners 
door. 



JAFFAR 

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY. 

Shelley, take this to thy dear memory ; — 
To praise the generous, is to think of thee. 



JafFar, the Barmecide, the good Yizier, 
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, 
Jaftar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; 
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust 
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say, 
Ordain' d that no man living from that day 
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.— 
All Araby and Persia held their breath. 

All but the brave Mondeer. — He, proud to show 
How far for love a grateful soul could go, 
And facing death for very scorn and grief 
(For his great heart wanted a great relief), 
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square 
Where once had stood a happy house ; and there 



JAFFAR. 235 

Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar 
On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 

" Bring me this man/' the caliph cried. The man 
Was brought — was gaz'd upon. The mutes began 
To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords!" cried he; 
" From bonds far worse Jaffar deliver'd me ; 
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; 
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; 
Restor'd me — lov'd me — put me on a par 
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar V 

Haroun, who felt, that on a soul like this 
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, 
Now deign' d to smile, as one great lord of fate 
Might smile upon another half as great. 
He said, " Let worth grow frenzied, if it will; 
The caliph's judgment shall be master still. 
Go ; and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem, 
The richest in the Tartar's diadem, 
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." 

"Gifts!" cried the friend. He toohj and holding it 
High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star, 
Exclaim'd, " This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar !" 



THE BITTER GOURD.* 

Lokman the Wise, therefore the Good (for wise 
Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes), 
Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind, 
Who, piqued sometimes at the man's master mind, 
Gave him, one day, to see how he would treat 
So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat. 

With simplest reverence, and no surprise, 
The sage receiv'd what stretch' d the donors eyes ; 
And, piece by piece, as though it had been food 
To feast and gloat on, every morsel chew'd ; 
And so stood eating, with his patient beard, 
Till all the nauseous favour disappear' d. 

Yex'd, and confounded, and dispos'd to find 
Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind, 
" Lokman !" exclaim'd his master, — " In God's name, 
Where could the M veriest slave get soul so tame ? 

* The ground- work of this story is in D'Herbelot, and other 
Eastern authorities. Lokman has sometimes been called the 
Arabian iEsop ; and sometimes thought to have been iEsop himself. 



THE BITTER GOURD. 237 

Have all my favours been bestow' d amiss ? 

Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this V 

Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands. — 
" Have I receiv'd," he answer'd, " at thine hands 
Favours so sweet they went to mine heart's root, 
And could I not accept one bitter fruit V 

" O Lokman !" said his lord (and as he spoke, 
For very love his words in softness broke), 
" Take but this favour yet : — be slave no more : — 
Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor : — 
Oh be; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorr'd; — 
'Tis I that am the slave, and thou the lord." 



THE INEVITABLE. 

INSCRIBED TO JOHN FORSTER. 

Forster, whose voice can speak of awe so well, \ 
And stern disclosures, new and terrible, [ 

This were a tale, my friend, for thee to tell. j 

Seek for it then in some old book ; but take 
Meantime this version, for the writer's sake. 



The royal sage, lord of the Magic Ring, 
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring, 
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk, 
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk, 
When they beheld, approaching, but with face 
Yet undiscern'd, a stranger in the place. 

How he came there, what wanted, who could be, 
How dare, unusher'd, beard such privacy, 
Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the King, 
And if so, why he should thus daunt the king 
(For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze, 
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze), 



THE INEVITABLE. 239 

All this tlie courtier would have ask'd; but fear 
Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near. 



The stranger seem'd (to judge him by his dress) 
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress, 
Or some poor pilgrim j but the steps he took 
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look 
Open'd a page in a tremendous book. 

He wore a cowl, from under which there shone, 
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone, 
A face, not of this earth, half veil'd in gloom 
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom, 
Which, ever as they came, before them sent 
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment, 
With sense of change, and worse of change 

to be, 
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety, 
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow, 
The past a scoff, the future crying "lSTow !" 
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair ; 
All that makes dying vehemence despair, 
Knowing it must be draggd it knows not where. 

Th' excess of fear and anguish, which had tied 
The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried, 



240 THE INEVITABLE. 

" royal master ! Sage ! Lord of the Ring, 
I cannot bear the horror of this thing ; 
Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray, 
On the remotest mountain of Cathay." 

Solomon wish'd, and the man vanish'd. Straight 
Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate. 

" Solomon," with a lofty voice said he, 
" How came that man here, wasting time with thee ? 
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day, 
From the remotest mountain of Cathay." 

Solomon said, bowing him to the ground, 
" Angel of Death, there will the man be found." 



WALLACE AND FA WD ON. 

This ballad was suggested by one of the notes to the Lay of the 
Last Minstrel. Wallace, the great Scottish patriot, had been 
defeated in a sharp encounter with the English. He was forced to 
retreat with only sixteen followers; the English pursued him with 
a bloodhound ; and his sole chance of escape from that tremendous 
investigator was either in baffling the scent altogether (which was 
impossible, unless fugitives could take to the water, and continue 
there for some distance), or in confusing it by the spilling of blood. 
For the latter purpose, a captive was sometimes sacrificed; in 
which case the hound stopped upon the body. 

The supernatural part of the story of Fawdon is treated by its 
first relater, Harry the Minstrel, as a mere legend, and that not a 
very credible one; but as a mere legend it is very fine, and quite 
sufficient for poetical purposes ; nor should the old poet's philosophy 
have thought proper to gainsay it. Nevertheless, as the mysteries 
of the conscience are more awful things than any merely gratuitous 
terror (besides leaving optical phenomena quite as real as the latter 
may find them), even the supernatural part of the story becomes 
probable when we consider the agitations which the noble mind of 
Wallace may have undergone during such trying physical circum- 
stances, and such extremes of moral responsibility. It seems clear, 
that however necessary the death of Fawdon may have been to his 
companions, or to Scotland, his slayer regretted it ; I have sug- 
gested the kind of reason which he would most likely have had for 
the regret; and upon the whole, it is my opinion, that Wallace 
actually saw the visions, and that the legend originated in the fact, 
I do not mean to imply that Fawdon became present, embodied or 

R 



242 WALLACE AND FAWDON. 

disembodied, whatever may have been the case with his image. 
I only say that what the legend reports Wallace to have seen, was 
actually in the hero's eyes. The remainder of the question I leave 
to the psychologist. 



PART THE FIRST. 

Wallace with his sixteen men 

Is on his weary way; 
They have hasting been all night, 

And hasting been all day; 
And now, to lose their only hope, 

They hear the bloodhound bay. 

The bloodhound's bay comes down the wind, 

Right upon the road; 
Town and tower are yet to pass, 

With not a friend's abode. 

Wallace neither turn'd nor spake; 

Closer drew the men; 
Little had they said that day, 

But most went cursing then. 

Oh ! to meet twice sixteen foes 

Coming from English ground, 
And leave their bodies on the track, 

To cheat King Edward's hound. 



WALLACE AXD FA WD ON. 213 

Oh ! to overtake one wretch 

That left them in the fight, 
And leave him cloven to the ribs, 

To mock the bloody spite. 

Suddenly dark Fawdon stopp'd, 

As they near'd a town ; 
He stumbled with a desperate oath. 

And cast him fiercely down. 

He said, " The leech took all my strength, 

My body is unblest • 
Come dog, come devil, or English rack, 

Here must Fawdon rest." 

Fawdon was an Irishman 

Had join'd them in the war; 
Four orphan children waited him 

Down by Eden Scawr. 

But Wallace hated Fawdon's ways, 

That were both fierce and shy; 
And at his words he turn'd, and said, 

" That's a traitor's lie. 

" No thought is thine of lingering here. 

A captive for the hound ; 
Thine eye is bright; thy lucky flesh 
r2 



244 WALLACE AND FAWDON. 

Hath not a single wound : 
The moment we depart, the lane 
Will see thee from the ground." 

Fawdon would not speak nor stir, 

Speak as any might ; 
Scorn'd or sooth'd, he sat and lour'd, 

As though in angry spite. 

Wallace drew a little back, 
And waved his men apart ; 

And Fawdon half leap'd up, and cried, 
" Thou wilt not have the heart l" 

Wallace with his dreadful sword, 

Without further speech, 
Clean cut off dark Fawdon's head, 

Through its stifled screech : 

Through its stifled screech, and through 
The arm that fenc'd his brow; 

And Fawdon, as he leap'd, fell dead, 
And safe is Wallace now. 

Safe is Wallace with his men, 

And silent is the hound; 
And on their way to Castle Gask 

They quit the sullen ground. 



WALLACE AND FAWDON. 245 



PAET THE SECOND. 

Wallace lies in Castle Gask, 

Safely with his men; 
Not a soul has come, three days, 

Within the warder's ken. 

Safely with his men lies Wallace, 

Yet he fareth ill : 
There is fever in his blood ; 

His mind may not be still. 

It was night, and all were housed, 

Talking long and late; 
Who is this that blows the horn 

At the castle-gate ? 

Who is this that blows a horn 
Which none but Wallace hears 1 

Loud and louder grows the blast 
In his frenzied ears. 

He sends by twos, he sends by threes, 
He sends them all to learn; 

He stands upon the stairs, and calls, 
But none of them return. 



246 WALLACE AND FAWDON. 

Wallace flings him forth down stairs; 

And there the moonlight fell 
Across the yard upon a sight, 

That makes him seem in hell. 

Fawdon's headless trunk he sees, 

With an arm in air, 
Brandishing his bloody head 

By the swinging hair. 

Wallace with a stifled screech 

Turn'd and fled amain, 
Up the stairs, and through the bowers, 

With a burning brain : 

From a window Wallace leap'd 

Fifteen feet to ground, 
And never stopp'd till fast within 

A nunnery's holy bound. 

And then he turn'd, in gasping doubt, 

To see the fiend retire, 
And saw him not at hand, but saw 

Castle Gask on fire. 

All on fire was Castle Gask; 

And on its top, endued 
With the bulk of half a tower, 

Headless Fawdon stood. 



WALLACE AND FAWDON. 247 

Wide lie held a burning beam, 

And blackly fill'd the light; 
His body seem'd, by some black art, 
To look at Wallace, heart to heart, 

Threatening through the night. 

Wallace that clay week arose 

From a feeble bed ; 
And gentle though he was before, 
Yet now to orjDhans evermore 

He gentlier bow'd his head. 



KILSPINDIE* 

Kma James to royal Stirling town 

Was riding from the chase, 
When he was ware of a banish'd man 

Heturn'd without his grace. 

The man stood forward from the crowd 

In act to make appeal : 
Said James, but in no pleasant tone, 

" Yonder is my Grey-steel." 

He knew him not by his attire, 

Which was but poor in plight; 
He knew him not by his brown curls, 

For they were turn'd to white; 

He knew him not by followers, 
For want had made them strange ; 

He knew him by his honest look, 
Which time could never change. 

* For the subject of this story I am indebted to a note in the 
Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 



KILSPINDIE. 249 

Kilspindie was a Douglas bold, 
Who, when the king was young, 

Had pleas'd him like the grim Grey-steel, 
Of whom sweet verse is sung :* 

Had pleas'd him by his sword that cropp'd 

The knights of their renown, 
And by a foot so fleet and firm, 

No horse could tire it down. 

But James hath sworn an angry oath, 

That as he was King crown'd, 
No Douglas ever more should set 

His foot on Scottish ground. 

Too bold had been the Douglas race, 

Too haughty and too strong; 
Only Kilspindie of them all 

Had never done him wrong. 

" A boon ! a boon I" Kilspindie cried; 

" Pardon that here am I : 
In France I have grown old and sad, 

In Scotland I would die." 

* See passages of it in Ellis's Specimens of Early English 
Metrical Romances, vol. iii. The whole of the original is to be 
found in a Scottish volume, the title of which I forget. 



250 KILSPINDIE. 

Kilspindie knelt, Kilspindie bent, 
His Douglas pride was gone; 

The King he neither spoke nor look'd, 
But sternly rode straight on. 

Kilspindie rose, and pace for pace 
Held on beside the train, 

His cap in hand, his looks in hope, 
His heart in doubt and pain. 

Before them lay proud Stirling hill, 
The way grew steep and strong ; 

The King shook bridle suddenly, 
And up swept all the throng. 

Kilspindie said within himself, 
" He thinks of Auld Lang Syne, 

And wishes pleasantly to see 

What strength may still be mine." 

On rode the court, Kilspindie ran, 
His smile grew half distress'd; 

There wasn't a man in that company, 
Save one, but wish'd him rest. 

Still on they rode, and still ran he, 
His breath he scarce could get ; 

There wasn't a man in that company, 
Save one, with eyes unwet. 



KILSPINDIE. 251 

The King has enter'd Stirling town, 

Nor ever graced him first ; 
Kilspindie sat him down, and ask'd 

Some water for his thirst. 

But they had mark'd the monarch's face, 

And how he kept his pride ; 
And old Kilspindie in his need 

Is water's self denied. 

Ten weeks thereafter, sever' d still 

From Scotland's dear embrace, 
Kilspindie died of broken heart, 

Sped by that cruel race. 

Ten years thereafter, his last breath 

King James as sadly drew; 
And though he died of many thoughts, 

Kilspindie cross' d him too. 



THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN. 

In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are 
sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkarnein, 
or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East and 
West, horns being an oriental symbol of power. 

One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon, the other a con- 
queror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of 
ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Grog 
and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached 
from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the 
subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates. See (among other 
passages in the same work) the article entitled " Jagioug et 
Magioug" in D'Herbelot's Bibliotheque Orientale. 

The story of the Trumpets, on which the present poem is 
founded, is quoted by Major Price, in his History of the Arabs be- 
fore the Time of Mahomet, from the old Italian collection of tales 
entitled the Pecorone, the work of Ser Giovanni Fiorentino. 

With awful walls, far glooming, that possess d 

The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains, 
Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West, 

Shut up the northern nations in their mountains; 
And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew, 

Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder, 
Craftily purpos'd, when his arms withdrew, 

To make him thought still hous'd there, like the 
thunder ; 



THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN. 253 

And it so fell; for when the winds blew right, 
They woke the trumpets to their calls of might. 

Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew, 

Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers, 
Till the long fear into religion grew, 

And never more those heights had human darers. 
Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god ; 

His walls but shadow' d forth his mightier frowning ; 
Armies of giants at his bidding trod 

From realm to realm, king after king discrowning. 
When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake stirr'd, 
Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard. 

But when the winters marr'd the mountain shelves, 

And softer changes came with vernal mornings, 
Something had touch' d the trumpets' lofty selves, 

And less and less rang forth their sovereign 
warnings : 
Fewer and feebler; as when silence spreads 

In plague-struck tents, where haughty chiefs, left 
dying, 
Fail by degrees upon their angry beds, 

Till, one by one, ceases the last stern sighing. 
One by one, thus, their breath the trumpets drew, 
Till now no more the imperious music blew. 



254: THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIN. 

Is he then dead ? Can great Doolkarnein die 1 

Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed ] 
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy 

Phantoms, that faded as himself receded ? 
Or is he anger'd? Surely he still comes; 

This silence ushers the dread visitation; 
Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums, 

And then will follow bloody desolation. 
So did fear dream ; though now, with not a sound 
To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round. 

Then gather d in a band, with lifted eyes, 

The neighbours, and those silent heights ascended. 
Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprize, 

They met, though twice they halted, breath-sus- 
pended; 
Once, at a coming like a god's in rage 

With thunderous leaps; but 'twas the piled snow, 
falling ; 
And once, when in the woods, an oak, for age, 

Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling. 
At last they came where still, in dread array, 
As though they still might speak, the trumpets lay. 

Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground, 

The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, 



THE TRUMPETS OF DOOLKARNEIX. 255 

Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as round 
And firm, as when the rocks were first set ringing. 

Fresh from their unimaginable mould 

They might have seem'd^ save that the storms had 
stain'd them 

With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold 

In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrain'd them. 

Breathless the gazers look'd, nigh faint for awe, 

Then leap'd, then laugh'd. What was it now they 
saw? 

Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that fill'd 

The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices ! 
The great, huge, stormy music had been still'd 

By the soft needs that nurs'd those small, sweet 
noises ! 
O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall ? 

Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces ? 
Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small 

Compar'd with Nature's least and gentlest courses. 
"Fears and false creeds may fright the realms awhile : 
But Heaven and Earth abide their time, and smile. 



ABEAHAMAND THEFIBE-WOBSHIPPER* 
% ©ramattc ^arafck. 

Scene — The inside of a Tent, in which the Patriarch 
Abraham and a Persian Traveller, a Fire- 
Worshipper, are sitting awhile after supper. 

Fire-Worshipper {aside). What have I said or 
done, that by degrees 
Mine host hath chang'd his gracious countenance, 
Until he stareth on me, as in wrath ! 
Have I, 'twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lore 1 
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself 
Would fain be sleeping ? I will speak to that. 
(Aloud.) Impute it, O my great and gracious lord, 
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly, 
If mine old eyelids droop against their will, 
And I become as one that hath no sense 
E'en to the milk and honey of thy words. — 
With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help, 
My limbs would creep to bed. 

* The groundwork of this story is to be found in the works of Dr. 
Franklin. 



ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE- WORSHIPPER. 257 

Abraham {angrily quitting his seat). In this tent, 
never. 
Thou art a thankless and an impious man. 

Fire- W. {rising in astonishment). A thankless and 
an impious man ! Oh, sir, 
My thanks have all but worshipp'd thee. 

Abraham. And whom 

Forgotten ? like the fawning dog I feed. 
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now 
To this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed, 
I've noted thee ; and never hast thou breath'd 
One syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks, 
To the great God who made and feedeth all. 

Fire-W. Oh, sir, the god I worship is the Fire, 
The god of gods ; and seeing him not here 
In any symbol, or on any shrine, 
I waited till he bless' d mine eyes at morn, 
Sitting in heaven. 

Abraham. Oh, foul idolator ! 

And dar'st thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent ? 
Forth with thee, wretch : for he that made thy god. 
And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven, 
The invisible and only dreadful God, 
Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm, 
And try thee in thy foolish god, the fire, 
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of. 

s 



258 ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE- WORSHIPPER. 

Hark to the rising of his robes, the winds, 
And get thee forth, and wait him. 

[A violent storm is heard rising. 

Fire- W. What ! unhous'd ! 

And on a night like this ! me, poor old man, 
A hundred years of age ! 

Abraham {urging him away.) Not reverencing 
The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence. 

Fire-W, Thou hadst a father: — think of his grey 
hairs, 
Houseless, and cuff'd by such a storm as this. 

Abraham. God is thy father, and thou own'st not 
him. 

Fire- W. I have a wife, as aged as myself, 
And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it, 
No, not a day, she is so used to me, 
So propp'd up by her other feeble self. 
I pray thee, strike us not both down. 

Abraham {still urging him). God made 

Husband and wife, and must be own'd of them, 
Else he must needs disown them. 

Fire-W. We have children, 

One of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week, 
Will all day long be going in and out, 
Upon the watch for me; she, too, a wife, 



ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 259 

And will be soon a mother. Spare, spare her ! 
She's a good creature, and not strong. 

Abraham. Mine ears 

Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy, 
And to the coming of the Lord and God, 
Who will this night condemn thee. 

[Abraham pushes him out, and remains alone, 
speaking. 

For if ever 
God came at night-time forth upon the world, 
"lis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds, 
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder, 
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds, 
Beneath the touching of the foot of God. 

\A tremendous crash of thunder, nearly overhead, 
ending in awful mutterings. 
That was God's speaking in the heavens, — that last 
And inward utterance coming by itself. 
What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord, 
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke 
To this idolator, whom thou abhorrest, 
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes 
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here. 

[A dead silence; and then a still small voice. 

The Voice. Abraham ! 

s2 



260 ABE AH AM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 

Abraham. Where art thou, Lord? and who is it 
that speaks 
So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn 
And dare to face his presence ? 

The Voice. Who but He 

Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn 1 
I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham; 
I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake ; 
But I am in the still small voice. 
Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in 1 

A braham. Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth. 
The Voice. Then didst thou do what God himself 
forebore. 
Have I, although he did deny me, borne 
With his injuriousness these hundred years, 
And couldst thou not endure him one sole night, 
And such a night as this 1 

Abraham. Lord ! I have sinn'd, 

And will go forth, and if he be not dead, 
Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies 
Both to himself and me. 

The Voice. Behold, and learn ! 

[The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold 
of the tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire- 
Worshipper, who is calmly sleeping, with his 
head on the back of a house-lamb. 



ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 261 

Abraham. loving God ! the lamb itself s his pillow, 
And on his forehead is a balmy dew, 
And in his sleep he smileth. I, meantime, 
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands, 
Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head, 
Which God himself had cradled ! — Oh, methinks 
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known, 
And Faith, some day, will all in Love be shown. 



DEATH AND THE KUFFIANS * 

MODERNIZED FROM CHAUCER. 



It is becoming less and less necessary to inform new readers of 
books, that the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, from two of which 
the following modernizations are made, are stories supposed to be 
told by a set of pilgrims, under the guidance of their tavern host, 
as they are journeying on horseback to the shrine of St. Thomas 
a Becket. 

The reader will do me great injustice, if he thinks that mo- 
dernizations like these are intended as substitutes for what they 
modernize. Their only plea for indulgence is, that they may act as 
incitements towards acquaintance with the great original. Chaucer's 
stories are all complete of their kind, all interesting in their plots, 
and surprising in their terminations ; and the satirical stories are 
as full of amusement, as the serious are of nobleness and pathos. 
It is therefore scarcely possible to repeat any one of them, in any 
way, without producing, in intelligent readers, a desire to know more 
of him ; and so far, and so far only, such ventures as the first of 
the two following become excusable. I heartily agree with those 



* The story of Death and the Ruffians is the tale told by the 
" Pardoner;" who was an officer of the Papal church for the sale 
of pardons and indulgences ; one of the set of men whose enormities 
precipitated the Reformation. He tells this admirable story in the 
tone of a good man, though he has prefaced it (in the original) with 
an impudent confession of his knavery. 



DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 263 

critics who are of opinion, that no modernizations of Chancer, 
however masterly they might be, could do him justice ; for either 
they must be little else but re-spellings (in which case they had 
better be wholly such at once, like Mr. Clarke's, and profess to 
be nothing but aids to perusal), or, secondly, they must be some- 
thing betwixt old style and new, and so reap the advantages of 
neither (which is the case, I fear, with the one just mentioned); or 
lastly, like the otherwise admirable versions by Dryden and Pope, 
they must take leave in toto of the old manner of the original, 
and proceed upon the merits, whatever those may be, of the style 
of the modernizers ; in which case Chaucer is sure to lose, not only 
in manner, but in matter. 

" Conscience," for example, is now a word of two syllables. In 
Chaucer's time it was a word of three, — Con-sci-ence. How is a 
modern hand to fill up the concluding line in the character of the 
Nun, without spoiling it ? 

"And all was con-sci-ence and tender heart." 

"A tender heart" would not do at all; nor can you find any 
monosyllable that would. 

So, still more emphatically, in the use of the old negative rtas 
(was not) in the exquisite couplet about the officious lawyer — 

" No where so busy a man as he there n'as, 
(Pronounce noz), 

" And yet he seemed busier than he was." 

Here the capital rhyme with those two smart peremptory mono- 
syllables (noz and woz) and consequently the perfection of the 
couplet, and part of the very spirit of the wit, must be lost in the 
necessity for turning the old words into new. 

Readers, therefore, will be good enough to take one of the stories 
here modernized, simply for what I describe it. They are to suppose 
it told on the rail way, only as an imperfect specimen of what they 
will hear better from the lips of our great acquaintance himself, 
when they come to know him. 



264 DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 

But what am I to say of the other specimen, or rather non- 
specimen, the fragment of the story of Cambus ? All I can say is 
the truth ; and so leave it to shift for itself, as it best may. It 
was the beginning of an attempt, many years ago, to make a com- 
plete story for Chaucer's fragment out of my acquaintance with 
stories of the East. Never, for an instant, did the preposterous 
idea of emulation enter my head. I could not pretend to complete 
the fragment in Chaucer's manner ; and therefore intended, with 
many loving apologies, to relate the whole story, as well as I could, 
in my own. Chaucer's words, however, as the reader may perceive, 
would still haunt me ; Milton's wish to have heard the rest of the 
story from the old poet, began to haunt me too, and to frighten me ; 
and in spite of many longings to bring my beloved Arabian Nights 
into play on the subject, I let the project go from me, with the 
assistance of many cares. 

Why then do I here republish it ? Because, apart from the 
perilous shade which it conjures up, I think there is something of 
" tropical blood " in it, not too common, or undesirable, in Eng- 
lish verse-making ; and because also there is something in Eastern 
stories of all kinds, which, being loth to part with it myself, I am 
apt to suppose equally in favour with the lovers of story-telling in 
general. 



Three drunken ruffians, madly believing Death to be an embodied 
person, go out to kill him. They meet him in the shape of an 
old man, who tells them where Death is to be found ; and they 
find him accordingly. 

In Flanders there was once a desperate set 

Of three young spendthrifts, fierce with drink and debt, 

Who, haunting every sink of foul repute, 

And giddy with the din of harp and lute, 



DEATH AtfD THE KUFFIANS. 265 

Went dancing and sat gambling day and night, 
And swill' d and gorg'd beyond their natures' might, 
And thus upon the devil's own altar laid 
The bodies and the souls that God had made. 

So horribly they swore with every word, 
They seem'd to think the Jews had spar'd our 

Lord, 
That rent his body; and the worse they swore, 
And scoff'd, and sinn'd, they did but laugh the 
more. 

Their doors were ever turning on the pin 
To let their timbrellers and tumblers in, 
Sellers of cakes and such-like \ — every one 
A devil's own help to see his business done, 
And blow up fires, far better, Sirs, made less, 
Out of th' accursed fuel of excess. 

These wretches, having lost one night at play, 
Were drinking still by the sad dawn of day, 
When hearing a bell go for some one dead, 
They curs' d, and call'd the vintner's boy, and said, 
" Who's he that has been made cold meat to- 
night ] 
Ask the fool's name, and see you bring it right V 



266 DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 

The boy who had been sick, and in whose head 
Something had put strange and grave matter, said, 
"Nay, Sirs, 'twas Hob, the smith. You knew him 

well; 
A big-mouth'd, red-hair' d man; you call'd him Hell. 
Last evening he was sitting, bolt upright, 
Too drunk to speak, when in there came a wight 
Whom men call Death, that slayeth high and low; 
And with his staff Death fell'd him at a blow, 
And so, without one word, betook him hence. 
He hath slain heaps during the pestilence. 
And, Sirs, they say, the boldest man had best 
Beware how he invite so grim a guest, 
Or be prepar'd to meet him, night and day. 
'Tis what, long since, I've heard my mother say." 

" Ay," quoth the vintner, " every word you hear 
Is true as gospel. He hath slain this year, 
And barely with his presence, half the place. 
God grant we meet not with his dreadful face." 

" God grant a fig's end," exclaim'd one. "Who's he 
Goes blasting thus fools' eyes? Let's forth, we 

three, 
And hunt him out, and punch the musty breath 
Out of his bones, and be the death of Death." 



DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 267 

'Twixt rage and liquor staggering forth they flung, 
And on their impious oaths their changes rung, 
And then would pause, and gathering all the breath 
Their shouts had left them, cry out, "Death to 
Death!" 

They had not gone a furlong, when they met, 
Beside a bridge that cross' d a rivulet, 
A poor old man, who meekly gave them way, 
And bow'd, and said, " God save ye, Sirs, I pray." 

The foremost swaggerer, prouder for the bow, 
Said, " Well, old crawler, what art canting now ? 
Why art thou thus wrapp'd up, all save thy face ? 
Why liv'st so long, in such a sorry case ?" 

The old man began looking steadfastly 
Into the speaker's visage, eye to eye, 
And said, " Because I cannot find the man, 
Nor could, though I had walk'd since time began, 
No, not the poorest man, nor the least sage, 
Who would exchange his youth for mine old age : 
And therefore must I keep mine old age still, 
As long as it shall please th' Almighty's will. 
Death will not rid me of this aching breast ; 
And thus I walk, because I cannot rest, 



268 DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 

And on the ground, my mother Nature's gate, 
I knock with mine old staff, early and late, 
And say to her, — Dear mother, let me in. 
Lo ! how I vanish, flesh, and blood, and skin. 
When shall I sleep for good ? Oh, mother dear, 
The coffin which has stood this many a year 
By my bedside, full gladly would I give 
For a bare shroud, so I might cease to live ; — 
And yet she will not do me, Sirs, that grace; 
For which full pale and wrinkled is my face. 

" But, Sirs, in you it is no courtesy 
To mock an old man, whosoe'er he be, 
Much less a harmless man in deed and word. 
The Scripture, as in church ye may have heard, 
Saith, — ' To an old man, hoar upon his head, 
Ye shall bow down.' Therefore let this be said 
By poor me now — Unto an old man do 
Nought which in age ye'd not have done to you. — 
And so God guard ye, Sirs, in weal or woe. 
I must go onward, where I have to go." 

"Nay," t'other cried, "Old Would-be Dead and Gone, 
Thou partest not so lightly, by Saint John. 
Thou spak'st but now of that false villain, Death, 
Who stoppeth here a world of honest breath : 



DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 269 

Where doth he bide 1 Tell us, or by the Lord, 
And Judas, and the jump in hempen cord, 
As surely as thou art his knave and spy, 
We'll hang thee out, for thine old rheums to dry. 
Thou art his privy nipper, thou old thief, 
Blighting and blasting all in the green leaf." 

" Sirs," quoth the old man, " spare, I pray, your 
breaths : 
Death ye would find, and this your road is Death's. 
Ye see yon spread of oaks, down by the brook ; 
There doth he lie, sunn'd in a flowery nook." 

Death sunning in a flowery nook ! How flies 
Each drunkard o'er the sward, to smite him as he lies ! 

They reach the nook : and what behold they there ! 
No Death, but yet a sight to make them stare; 
To make them stare, not out of mortal dread, 
But only for huge bliss and stounded head; 
To wit, pour'd forth, countless, and deep, and broad, 
As if some cart had there discharg'd its load, 
A bank of florins of fine gold, — all bright, 
Fresh from the mint, plump, ponderous. What a sight ! 
They laugh' d, they leapt, they flung to earth, and roll'd 
Their souls and bodies in the glorious gold ; 



270 DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 

And then they sat and commim'd; and the worst 
Of all the three was he that spoke the first. 

" God's life 1" quoth he ; " here's treasure ! here's a 
day! 
Hush; — look about. Now hark to what I say. 
This store that luck hath sent us, boys, — ho ! ho ! 
As freely as it came, shall it not go 1 
By G — , it shall ; and precious nights we'll spend. 
Who thought friend Death would make so good an end 1 
This is a wizard's work, to 'scape us, hey ? 
No matter. 'Tis hard gold, and well shall pay. 
But how to store it, Sirs 1 to get it hous'd ? 
Help must be shunn'd. Men's marvel would be 

rous'd. 
"Wherefore I hold that we draw lots, and he 
To whom it falls betake him suddenly 
To town, and bring us victuals here, and wine, 
Two keeping watch till all the three can dine; 
And then at night we'll get us spades, and here, 
In its own ground, the gold shall disappear." 

The lots are drawn, the youngest thief sets off; 
And then the first, after a little cough, 
Besum'd — " I say, — we two are of one mind ; 
Thou know'st it well; and he but a mean hind. 



DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 271 

5 Twas always so. We were the merry men, 

And he the churl and sot. Well, mark me then. 

This heap of money, ravishing to see, 

The fool supposes, must be shar'd by three. 

But — hey 1 Just so. You think, as wise men do, 

That three men's shares are better shar'd by two." 

" Yet how r said t'other. 

" How !" said he : — " 'tis done, 
As easily as counting two to one. 
He sitteth down : thou risest as in jest, 
And while thou tumblest with him, breast to breast, 
I draw my dirk, and thrust him in the side : 
Thine follows mine; and then we two divide 
The lovely gold. What say'st thou, dearest friend 1 
Lord ! of our lusty life were seen no end." 

The bond was made. The journey er to the town 
Meantime had in his heart roll'd up and down 
The beauty of the florins, hard and bright. 
" Christ Lord !" thought he, " what if I had the right 
To all this treasure, my own self alone ! 
There's not a living man beneath the throne 
Of God that should be half so blest as I." 
And thus he ponder' d, till the Enemy, 



272 DEATH AND THE RUFFIANS. 

The Fiend, who found his nature nothing loth, 
Whisper d him, " Poison them. They're villains both. 
Always they cheat thee ; sometimes beat thee ; oft 
Carp at thy brains. Prove now whose brains are soft." 

With speed a shop he seeketh, where is sold 
Poison for vermin ; and a tale hath told 
Of rats and polecats that molest his fowl. 
" Sir," quoth the shopman, " God so guard my soul, 
As thou shalt have a drug so pure and strong 
To slay the knaves that do thy poultry wrong, 
That were the hugest creature on God's earth 
To taste it, stricken would be all his mirth 
From out his heart, and life from out his sense, 
Ere he could drag his body a mile hence." 

The cursed wretch, too happy to delay, 
Grasping the box of poison, takes his way 
To the next street, and buys three flasks of wine. 
Two he drugs well against his friends shall dine, 
And with a mark secures the harmless one, 
To drink at night-time till his work be done ; 
For all that night he looks to have no sleep, 
So well he means to hide his golden heap, 
And thus thrice arm'd, and full of murderous glee, 
Back to the murderous two returneth he. 



DEATH AKD THE RUFFIANS. 273 

What needeth more ? for even as their plan 
Had shaped his death, right so hath died the man; 
And even as the flasks in train were set, 
His heirs and scorners fall into his net. 

" Ace thrown," quoth one, smiling a smile full grim ; 
" jSTow for his wine, and then we'll bury him." 

And seizing the two flasks, each held his breath 
With eyes to heav'n, and deep he drank his death. 



CAMBUS KHAN.* 

A FRAGMENT. 

A stranger brings to the King of Tartary, while he is feasting, 
certain wonderful presents, among which is a brazen horse, 
which the monarch rides. 

At Sarra, in the land of Tartary, 

There dwelt a king, and with the Russ warr'd he, 

Through which there perish'd many a doughty man; 

And Cambus was he call'd, the noble Khan. 

Nowhere, in all that region, had a crown 

Been ever worn with such entire renown. 

* This, in the original, is the story that Milton so admired. 

Call up him that left half told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, 

Of Camball and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 

And of the wonderous horse of brass, 

On which the Tartar king did ride. 

It is strange that Milton should have pronounced the word 
Cambuscan; nor is it pleasant, when his robust line must be 
resounding in the ear of every one to whom the story is called to 
mind, to be forced to obey even the greater dictation of the original, 
and throw the accent, as undoubtedly it ought to be thrown, on 
the first and last syllable. On no theory, as respects Chaucer's 
versification, does it appear intelligible how Milton could have 
thrown the accent on the second syllable, when the other reading 
stares us in the face throughout Chaucer's poem. 



C AMBUS KHAN. 275 

Hardy lie was, and true, and rich, and wise, 
Always the same ; serene of soul and eyes ; 
Piteous and just, benign and honourable, 
Of his brave heart as any centre stable ; 
And therewithal he ever kept a state 
So fit to uphold a throne so fortunate, 
That there was nowhere such another man. 

This noble king, this Tartar, Cambus Khan,* 
Had by the late Queen Elfeta, his wife, 
Two sons, named Cambalu and Algarsife, 
And a dear daughter, Canace by name, 
Whose perfect beauty puts my pen to shame. 
If you could see my heart, it were a glass 
To show perhaps how fair a thing she was; 
But when I speak of her, my tongue appears 
To fail me, looking in that face of hers. 
'Tis well for me that I regard not those, 
Who love what I do, as my natural foes ; 
Or when I think how dear she is to be 
To one that will adorn this history, 
And how her heart will love him in return, 
My paper, sooner than be touch'd, should burn ; 

* This commencement of a fresh paragraph with the second line 
of a couplet, a beauty noticed in our prefatory observations, is 
retained, together with the couplet itself, from the original. 

T 2 



276 CAM BUS KHAN. 

But she knows nothing of all this at present, 
She's only young, and innocent, and pleasant; 
And sometimes by her father sits and sighs, 
On which he stoops to kiss her gentle-lidded eyes. 

And so befel, that when this Khan supreme 

Had twenty winters borne his diadem, 

He bade the feast of his nativity 

Be cried through Sarra, as 'twas wont to be. 

It was in March ; and the young lusty year 

Came in with such a flood of golden cheer, 

That the quick birds, against the sunny sheen, 

What for the season and the thickening green, 

Sung their affections loudly o'er the fields : 

They seem'd to feel that they had got them shields 

Against the sword of winter, keen and cold. 

High is the feast in Sarra, that they hold ; 
And Cambus, with his royal vestments on, 
Sits at a separate table on a throne; 
His sons a little lower on the right; 
His daughter on the left, a gentle sight ; 
And then his peers, apart from either wall, 
Banged in majestic drapery down the hall. 
The galleries on two sides have crowded slants 
Full as flow'r-shows, of ladies and gallants; 



CAMBUS KHAN. 277 

And o'er the doorway, opposite the king, 

The proud musicians blow their shawms and sing. 

But to relate the whole of the array- 
Would keep me from my tale a summer's day ; 
And so I pass the service and the cost 
The often-silenced noise, the lofty toast, 
And the glad symphonies that leap'd to thank 
The lustre-giving Lord, whene'er he drank. 
Suffice to say, that after the third course, 
His vassals, while the sprightly wine's in force, 
And the proud music mingles over all, 
Bring forth their gifts, and set them in the hall; 
And so befel, that when the last was set, 
And while the king sat thus in his estate, 
Hearing his minstrels playing from on high 
Before him at his board deliciously, 
All on a sudden, ere he was aware, 
Through the hall door, and the mute wonder 

there, 
There came a stranger on a steed of brass, 
And in his hand he held a looking-glass ; 
Some sparkling ring he wore ; and by his side, 
Without a sheath, a cutting sword was tied ; 
And up he rides unto the royal board : 
In all the hall there was Dot spoke a word: 






278 CAMBUS KHAN. 

All wait with busy looks, botli young and old, 
To hear what wonderous thing they shall be told. 

The stranger, who appear'd a noble page, 
High-bred, and of some twenty years of age, 
Dismounted from his horse; and kneeling down, 
Bow'd low before the face that wore the crown ; 
Then rose, and reverenc'd lady, lords, and all, 
In order as they sat within the hall, 
With such observance, both in speech and air, 
That certainly, had Kublas self been there,* 
Or sage Confucius, with his courtesy, 
Return' d to earth to show what men should be, 
He could not have improv'd a single thing : 
Then turning lastly to address the king, 
Once more, but lightlier than at first, he bow'd, 
And in a manly voice thus spoke aloud : — 

" May the great Cambus to his slave be kind ! 
My lord, the King of Araby and Ind, 
In honour of your feast, this solemn day, 
Salutes you in the manner he best may, 
And sends you, by a page whom he holds dear, 
(His happy but his humble messenger) 
This steed of brass ; which, in a day and night, 
Through the dark half as safely as the light, 

* The great Chinese Emperor of the Tartar dynasty. 



CAMBUS KHAN. 279 

O'er sea and land, and with your perfect ease, 
Can bear your body wheresoe'er you please. 
It matters not if skies be foul or fair ; 
The thing is like a thought, and cuts the air 
So smoothly, and so well observes the track, 
The man that will may sleep upon his back. 
All that the rider needs, when he would turn, 
Or rise, or take him downwards, you may 

learn, 
If it so please you, when we speak within, 
And does but take the writhing of a pin. 

" This glass too, which I hold, such is its power, 
That if by any chance, an evil hour 
Befel your empire or yourself, 'twould show 
What men you ought to know of, friend or foe; 
And more than this, if any lady's heart 
Be set on one that plays her an ill part, 
Or is in aught beneath her love and her, 
Here she may see his real character, 
All his new loves, and all his old pursuits \ 
His heart shall all be shown her, to the roots. 

" Therefore, my lord, with your good leave, this 
glass, 
And this green ring, the greenest ever was, 



280 CAMBUS KHAN. 

My master, with his greeting, hopes may be 
Your excellent daughter's here, my lady Canace. 

" The virtues of the ring, my lord, are these — 
That if a lady loves the flowers and trees, 
And birds, and all fair Nature's ministers, 
And if she bear this gem within her purse, 
Or on her hand, like any other ring, 
There's not a fowl that goes upon the wing, 
But she shall understand his speech or strain, 
And in his own tongue answer him again. 
All plants that gardens or that fields produce, 
She shall be also skill' d in, and their use, 
Whether for sweetness or for staunching wounds : 
No secret shall she miss, that smiles in balmy grounds. 

" Lastly, my lord, this sword has such a might, 
That let it meet the veriest fiend in fight, 
'Twill carve throughout his armour the first stroke, 
Were it as thick as any branched oak ; 
Nor could the wound be better for the care 
Of all the hands and skills that ever were ; 
And yet, should it so please you, of your grace, 
To pass the flat side on the wounded place, 
Though it were ready to let out his soul, 
The flesh should close again, the man be whole. 



CAMBUS KHAN. 281 

" Oh heart of hearts ! that nobody shall break ! 
Pardon me, sir, that thus my leave I take 
E'en of a sword, and like a lover grieve, 
But its own self, unbidden, will not leave 
The hand that wields it, though it smote a block 
The dullest in the land, or dash'd a rock : 
And this my master hopes may also be ^ 

Acceptable to Tartary's majesty, 
With favour for himself, and pardon, sir, for me." 

The Khan, who listen' d with a gracious eye, 
Smil'd as he stopp'd, and made a due reply, 
Thanking the king, his brother, for the great, 
Not gifts, but glories, added to his state, 
And saying how it pleas'd him to have known 
So young an honour to his neighbour's throne. 
The youth then gave the proper officers 
The gifts; who, 'midst the music's bursting airs, 
Laid them before the king and Canace, 
There as they sate, each in their high degree : 
But nothing that they did could move the horse ; 
Boys might as well have tried their little force 
Upon a giant with his armour on : 
The brazen thing stood still as any stone. 
The stranger hasten'd to relieve their doubt, 
And touch'd his neck, and led him softly out; 



282 C AMBUS KHAN. 

And 'twas a wonder and a joy to see 
How well lie went, lie stept so tenderly. 

Great was the press that from all quarters came 
To gaze upon this horse of sudden fame ; 
And many were the struggles to get close, 
And touch the mane to try if it hung loose, 
Or pat it on the shining flanks, or feel 
The muscles in the neck that sternly swell ; 
But the Khan's officers forbade, and fear 
E'en of the horse conspir'd to keep the circle clear. 

High was the creature built, both broad and 
long, 
And with a true proportion to be strong; 
And yet so " horsely" and so quick of eye, 
As if it were a steed of Araby ; 
So that from tail to ear there was no part 
Nature herself could better, much less art; 
Only the people dreaded to perceive 
How cold it was, although it seem'd alive ; 
And on all sides the constant wonder was 
How it could move, and yet was plainly brass. 

Of magic some discours'd, and some of powers 
By planets countenanced in kindly hours, 



CAMBUS KHAN. 283 

Through which wise men had compass'd mighty 

things 
Of natural wit to please illustrious kings ; 
And some fell talking of the iron chain 
That fell from heaven in old king Argun's reign;* 
And then they spoke of visions in the air, 
And how this creature might have been born there ; 
Of white lights heard at work, and fiery fights \ 
Seen in the north on coldest winter nights, 
And pale traditions of Pre-Adamites. 

Much did the talk run also on the sword, 
That harm'd and heal'd, fit gift for sovereign lord. 
One said that he had heard, or read somewhere, 
Of a great southern king with such a spear; 
A chief, who had for mother a sea-fairy, 
And slew a terror called the Sagittary.f 
As to the glass, some thought the secret lay 
In what geometers and others say 
Of angles and reflections, as a pond 
Shows not its sides alone, but things beyond; 
Iskander set one, like a sleepless eye, 
O'er a sea-town, far seen, and studied nigh, 

* Rather, I presume, the iron (an aerolite) of which the chain 
was made. 

*f* This is the Centaur in the " Tale of Troy," as told by the 
middle ages. The ' ' chief" was Achilles. 



284c CAMBUS KHAN. 

In which the merchant read of storms to come, 

Or hail'd his sunny ships blown softly home.* 

But most the ring was talk'd of: every one 

Quoting that other ring of Solomon, 

Which, wheresoe'er it married, brought a dower 

Of wisdom, and upon the hand put power. 

A knowledge of the speech of birds was known 

To be a gift especially its own, 

Which made them certain that this ring of green 

Was part of it, perhaps a sort of skin 

Shed for some reason as a serpent's is; 

And here their reasoning was not much amiss. 

The wiser sort ponder'd and doubted; folly 

Determin'd everything, or swallow'd wholly; 

The close and cunning, foolishest of all, 

Fear'd that the whole was diabolical, 

And wish'd the stranger might not prove a knave 

Come to find out what liberal monarchs gave, 

And ruin with his very dangerous horses 

People's eternal safety, and their purses. 

For what it puzzles vice to comprehend, 

It gladly construes to the baser end. 

Some wits there were began at last to doubt 
Whether the horse could really move about, 

* The lighthouse at Alexandria, supposed, in the east, to be the 
work (thus fabulized) of Alexander the Great. 



CAMBUS KHAN. 285 

And on their fingers' ends were arguing, 
When lo ! their subject vanish'd from the ring; 
Vanish' d like lightning ; an impatient beast ! 
But, hark ! I hear them rising from the feast. 

The dinner done, Cambus arose; and all 
Stood up, prepar'd to follow from the hall : 
On either side they bend beneath his eye : 
" Before him goeth the loud minstrelsy;" 
And thus they pace into a noble room, 
Where dance and song were waiting till they come 
With throng of waxen lights that shed a thin 

perfume. 
But first the king and his young visitor 
Go where the horse was put, and close the 

door; 
And there the Khan learns all about the pin, 
And how the horse is hasten'd or held in, 
And turn'd, and made to rise or to descend, 
And all by a mere thumb and finger's end. 
The stranger further tells him of a word, 
By which the horse, the instant it is heard, 
Vanishes with his sparkling shape, like light, 
And comes again, whether it be day or night. 
" And, sir," said he, " my master bade me say 
The first time I was honour'd in this way, 



286 C AMBUS KHAN. 

(For on the throne you might prefer, he said, 

To wave such plain confessions from crown'd head) 

That one like you were fitter far than he 

To ride the elements like a deity, 

And with a speed proportion'd to your will 

Shine on the good, and fall upon the ill; 

For he, too sensual and too satisfied 

With what small good lay near him, like a 

bride, 
Was ever but a common king; but you 
A king, and a reforming conqueror, too."* 

Glad is great Cambus, both at this discourse, 
And to be master of so strange a horse, 
And longs to mount at once, and go and see 
His highest mountain tops in Tartary, 
Or look upon the Caspian, or appear 
Suddenly in Cathay, a starry fear. 
And any other time he would have gone, 
So much he long'd to put his pinions on, 
But on his birth- day 'twas not to be done; 
And so they have return'd, and join'd the guests, 
Who wait the finish of this feast of feasts. 



* In making these additions to the original, the author had an 
eye to that continuation of the story, which he has mentioned. 



CAMBUS KHAN. 



287 



But how shall I describe the high delight, 
And all the joys that danced into the night ? 
Imagine all that should conclude a feast 
Giv'n by a mighty prince, and in the east, 
And all was here, from song to supper stand, 
As though it had arisen from fairy-land. 
The feast before it was a thing of state ; 
But this the flowery top, and finish delicate. 
Here were the cushion d sofas, the perfumes, 
The heavenly mirrors making endless rooms; 
The last quintessences of drinks ; the trays 
Of colour'd relishes dress' d a thousand ways ; 
The dancing girls, that bending here and there, 
With asking beauty lay along the air; 
And lighter instruments, guitars and lutes, 
Sprinkling their graces on the streaming flutes; 
And all the sounds, and all the sweets of show, 
Feeling victorious while the harpings go. 
Not all the lords were there, only the best 
And greatest, all in change of garments drest; 
And with them were the wives they thought the 

loveliest. 
You must not judge our Tartars by the tales 
Of nations merely eastern, and serails : 
The eastern manners were in due degree, 
But mix'd and rais'd with northern liberty; 



\ 



288 C AMBUS KHAN. 

And women came with their impetuous lords, 
To pitch the talk and humanize the boards, 
And shed a gentle pleasure in the place, — 
The smooth alternate with the bearded face ; 
As airs in spring come soft among the trees, 
And what was bluster turn to whispering ease. 

Our young ambassador convers'd with all, 
But still attendant on the sovereign's call, 
Who, like the rest, whatever the discourse, 
Was sure to turn it to the gifts and horse; 
Till, to the terror of some lovers, word 
Was giv'n to fetch the mirror and the sword ; 
The ring, meanwhile, being handed round, and tried 
Upon fair fingers with a fluttering pride. 
Some long'd to have the birds awake, and some 
Were glad enough the tattling things were dumb. 
" Great heav'n !" thought one, and seem'd to faint \ 

away, 
"What (ah ! my Khojah!) would the parrot sayf' 
" And what," conceiv'd another, " would the jay? i 
" I've often thought the wretch was going to speak, > 
" He trolls the shocking words so in his beak : 
" I'm sure the very first would make me shriek." 
Cambus, as sage as he was valiant, thought 
There was no need to have the creatures brought; 



CAMBUS KHAN. 289 

Nor, when the mirror came, would he permit 

That any but himself should read in it ; 

For which, as he perceiv'd, but mention'd not, 

Full thirty ladies lov'd him on the spot. 

As to the sword, he thought it best to try 

So masculine a thing in open sky; 

Which made him also chuse to take a course 

Over the towers of Sarra on his horse. 

So issuing forth, he led into the air, 

Saluting the sweet moon which met him there, 

And forth the steed was brought ; you would \ 

have said, 
It knew for what, so easily 'twas led, 
And leant with such an air its lively head. 
But when at rest, still as before it stood, 
As though its legs had to the ground been glued. 
Some urged it on, some dragg'd, and some would 

fain 
Have made it lift a foot, but all in vain. 
And yet when Cambus whisper'd it, a thrill 
Flash' d through its limbs, nor could its feet be still, 
But rock'd the body with a sprightly grace, 
As though it yearn'd aloft, and weigh'd it for the race. 

The youth had talk'd of armour like an oak, 

And how the sword would joint it with a stroke. 

U 



290 C AMBUS KHAN. 

The Khan had no convenient foe at hand, 
To see what sort of carving he could stand, 
But in the moon there stood some oaken trees, 
And suddenly, he struck at one of these : 
Back, like a giant, fell its towering size, 
And let the light on his victorious eyes. 
The blow was clearly the sword's own, and yet 
The Khan, as if inspir'd, felt proud of it, 
And leaping on the horse as suddenly, 
He touch' d the pin, and bade the fair good bye, 
And 'midst their pretty shrieks, went mounting 
to the sky. 

Cambus ascended such a height so soon, 
It seem'd as if he meant to reach the moon ; 
And you might know by a tremendous shout, 
That not a soul in Sarra but look'd out; 
But the fierce noise made some of them afraid, 
That it might startle e'en a brazen head, 
And threat'ning looks were turn'd upon the 

youth, 
Who glow'd and said, " By all the faith and truth 
That is, or can be, in the heart of man, 
Nothing can happen to the noble Khan: 
See, he returns !" And at the word, indeed, 
They saw returning the descending steed; 



C AMBUS KHAN. 291 

Not round and round, careering; but at once ; 
Oblique and to the point, a fervid pounce. 
For to say truth, the noble Khan himself, 
Though he had fought on many a mountain shelf, 
And droop'd through deserts, and been drench'd in 

seas, 
Felt somewhat strange in that great emptiness, 
And was not sorry to relieve his court, 
By cutting his return some fathom short : 
Such awful looks has utter novelty 
To dash and to confuse the boldest eye. 

The Khan return' d, they hasten all again 
To their warm room, but do not long remain : 
For late, and long, and highly- wrought delight 
Cannot, at will, resume its giddy height; 
And so, his story told, and praises spread 
From mouth to mouth, he waved his court to 

bed; 
Yet still in bed, and dozing oft between, 
Their fading words recall' d what they had seen : 
Still of the ring they mumbled, and the glass, 
And what amazing things might come to pass : 
And when they slept (for suppers produce dreams, 
And join'd with dinners, mount them to ex- 
tremes) 

u2 



292 C AMBUS KHAN. 

A hundred vapour-headed souls that night 

Went riding their own brass with all their 

might : 
They skim, they dive, they shoot about, they soar, 1 
They say, — " Why rode I not this way before] 
Strange ! not to think of such a perfect goer ! 
What leg that crosses brass would stoop to horse- 
flesh more f* 

Ay : such, quoth the wise wit, is human life : 
We dream of mirth, and wake, and find one's 

wife ! 
Nay, quoth the wiser wit, the best way then 
Is to wake little, and to sleep again. 
Wake much, if life go right : if it go wrong, 
Learn how to dream with Chaucer all day long : 
Or learn still better, if you can, to make 
Your world at all times, sleeping or awake ; 
The true receipt, whether by days or nights, 
To charm your griefs, and double your delights. 

Fancy and Fact differ in this alone ; 
One strikes our spirit, and our substance one ; 

* It is hoped that this quadruple rhyme, the first ever ventured 
in the heroic measure, will be pardoned under the "go" of the 
circumstances. 



CAMBUS KHAN. 



293 



But both alike can bring into our eyes 

The tears, and make a thousand feelings rise 

Of smarting wrongb, or pleasant sympathies. 



But sleep thou too, my pen. At morn we'll tell 
What sweet and sad new knowledge there befel 
The lady of the ring within a warbling dell. 



TEANSLATIONS. 



THE INFANT HERCULES AND THE 
SERPENTS. 

FROM THEOCRITUS. 

Juno, jealous of the child which Jupiter has had by Alcniena, 
sends two dreadful serpents to devour the boy. The serpents come 
upon him, while he and his half-brother Iphiclus, the son of Am- 
phitryon, are sleeping together. Iphiclus, the child of the mortal 
father, is terrified : Hercules, the infant demi-god, seizes and 
destroys them, as if they were living play-things. His mother con- 
sults the prophet Tiresias on the occasion, and is told of her son's 
future renown. 

Young Hercules had now beheld the light 

Only ten months, when once upon a night, 

Alcmena, having wash'd, and given the breast 

To both her heavy boys, laid them, to rest. 

Their cradle was a noble shield of brass, 

Won by her lord from slaughtered Pterelas. 

Gently she laid them down, and gently laid 

Her hand on both their heads, and yearn'd, and said, 

" Sleep, sleep, my boys, a light and pleasant sleep; 

My little souls, my twins, my guard and keep ! 



THE INFANT HERCULES AND THE SERPENTS. 295 

Sleep happy, and wake happy !" And she kept 
Rocking the mighty buckler, and they slept. 

At midnight, when the Bear went down, and broad 
Orion's shoulder lit the starry road, 
There came, careering through the opening halls, 
On livid spires, two dreadful animals — 
Serpents; whom Juno, threatening as she drove, 
Had sent there to devour the boy of Jove. 
Orbing their blood-fed bellies in and out, 
They tower'd along; and as they look'd about, 
An evil fire out of their eyes came lamping ; 
A heavy poison dropt about their champing. 

And now they have arriv'd, and think to fall 
To their dread meal, when lo ! (for Jove sees all) 
The house is lit, as with the morning's break, 
And the dear children of Alcmena wake. 
The younger one, as soon as he beheld 
The evil creatures coming on the shield, 
And saw their loathsome teeth, began to cry 
And shriek, and kick away the clothes, and try 
All his poor little instincts of escape ; 
The other, grappling, seized them by the nape 
Of either poisonous neck, for all their twists, 
And held, like iron, in his little fists. 



296 THE INFANT HERCULES AND THE SERPENTS. 

Buckled and bound he held them, struggling wild; 
And so they wound about the boy, the child, 
The long-begetting boy, the suckling dear, 
That never teaz'd his nurses with a tear. 

Tir'd out at length, they trail their spires and gasp, 
Lock'd in that young indissoluble grasp. 

Alcmena heard the noise, and " Wake," she cried, 
" Amphitryon, wake ; for terror holds me tied ! 
Up ; stay not for the sandals : hark ! the child, 
The youngest — how he shrieks ! The babe is wild : 
And see, the walls and windows ! 'Tis as light 
As if 'twere day, and yet 'tis surely night. 
There's something dreadful in the house ; there is 
Indeed, dear husband !" He arose at this ; 
And seiz'd his noble sword, which overhead 
Was always hanging at the cedar-bed : 
The hilt he grasp'd in one hand, and the sheath 
In t'other ; and drew forth the blade of death. 

All in an instant, like a stroke of doom, 
Returning midnight smote upon the room. 

Amphitryon call'd; and woke from heavy sleep 
His household, who lay breathing hard and deep; 



THE INFANT HERCULES AND THE SERPENTS. 297 

" Bring lights here from the hearth ! lights, lights ; 

and guard 
The doorways ; rise, ye ready labourers hard 1" 

He said; and lights came pouring in, and all 
The busy house was up, in bower and hall ; 
But when they saw the little suckler, how 
He grasp'd the monsters, and with earnest brow 
Kept beating them together, plaything- wise, 
They shriek'd aloud; but ,he with laughing eyes, 
Soon as he saw Amphitryon, leap'd and sprung 
Childlike, and at his feet the dead disturbers flung. 

Then did Alcmena to her bosom take 
Her feebler boy, who could not cease to shake. 
The other son Amphitryon took and laid 
Beneath a fleece; and so return'd to bed. 

Soon as the cock, with his thrice-echoing cheer, 
Told that the gladness of the day was near, 
Alcmena sent for old, truth-uttering 
Tiresias; and she told him all this thing, 
And bade him say what she might think and do; 
" Nor do thou fear," said she, " to let me know, 
Although the mighty gods should meditate 
Aught ill; for man can never fly from Fate. 



298 THE INFANT HERCULES AND THE SERPENTS. 

And thus thou seest" (and here her smiling eyes 
Look'd through a blush) "how well I teach the wise." 

So spoke the queen. Then he, with glad old tone ; 
" Be of good heart, thou blessed bearing one, 
True blood of Perseus ; for by my sweet sight, 
Which once divided these poor lids with light, 
Many Greek women, as they sit and weave 
The gentle thread across their knees at eve, 
Shall sing of thee and thy beloved name ; 
Thou shalt be blest by every Argive dame : 
For unto this thy son it shall be given, 
With his broad heart to win his way to heaven ; 
Twelve labours shall he work; and all accurst 
And brutal things o'erthrow, brute men the worst ; 
And in Trachinia shall the funeral pyre 
Purge his mortalities away with fire; 
And he shall mount amid the stars, and be \ 

Acknowledg'd kin to those who envied thee, 
And sent these den-born shapes to crush his 
destiny." 



PAULO AND FKANCESCA. 

FROM DANTE. 
IN THE TRIPLE RHYME OF THE ORIGINAL. 

In the fifth circle of his imaginary Hell, (through which he is con- 
ducted by the spirit of Virgil,) Dante sees the souls of Paris and 
Helen, of Semiramis, Cleopatra, Tristan, and other personages, real 
and fabulous, who had given way to carnal passions. Among them 
he observes those of two lovers, whose tragical end had afflicted the 
house of his friend and patron, Gfuido Novello da Polenta, Lord of 
Ravenna. He asks permission to speak with them; and out of 
excess of pity at the recital of their story, falls like a man struck 
dead. 

This is the beautiful and affecting passage in Dante, on which 
the author of the present volume, when a young man, ventured to 
found the Story of Rimini. He introduces it in the volume for 
the purpose of enriching his Stories in Verse, for even a translation 
cannot hinder it from doing that. Stories are told in many ways 
in going from mouth to mouth ; and the reader will be good enough 
to consider the Story of Rimini as a detail of the particulars of a 
domestic event, given by a young man out of the interest which he 
has taken in what he has heard, but with no thought of competing 
in point of effect, or in any other point, with the wonderful sum- 
mary, in the shape of which he first heard it. 

To recur to an illustration of another sort, he will add, from his 
Autobiography, that the " design" of his poem is "altogether dif- 
ferent in its pretensions." It is " a picture, by an immature 
hand, of sunny luxuriance overclouded; not of a cloud, no less 



300 PAULO AND FRANCESCA. 

brief than beautiful, crossing the gulfs of Tartarus. Those who, 
after having seen lightning, will tolerate no other effect of light, 
have a right to say so, and may have the highest critical reason on 
their side ; but those who will do otherwise have perhaps more ; 
for they can enjoy lightning, and a bask in the sunshine too." 

Scarce had I learnt the names of all that press 
Of knights and dames, than I beheld a sight 
Nigh reft my wits for very tenderness. 

" O guide !" I said, " fain would I, if I might, 
Have speech with yonder pair, that hand in hand 
Seem borne before the dreadful wind so light." 

" Wait," said my guide, " until thou seest their band 
Sweep round. Then beg them, by that love, to stay; 
And they will come, and hover where we stand." 

Anon the whirlwind flung them round that way; 
And then I cried, " Oh, if I ask nought ill, 
Poor weary souls, have speech with me, I pray." 

As doves, that leave some bevy circling still, 
Set firm their open wings, and through the air 
Sweep homewards, wafted by their pure good will ; 

So broke from Dido's flock that gentle pair, 
Cleaving, to where we stood, the air malign; 
Such strength to bring them had a loving prayer. 



PAULO AND FRAXCESCA. 301 

The female spoke. " living soul benign 1" 
She said, " thus, in this lost air, visiting 
Us, who with blood stain'd the sweet earth divine; 

" Had we a friend in heaven's eternal King, 
We would beseech him keep thy conscience clear, 
Since to our anguish thou dost pity bring. 

" Of what it pleaseth thee to speak and hear, 
To that we also, till this lull be o'er 
That falleth now, will speak and will give ear. 

" The place where I was born is on the shore, 
Where Po brings all his rivers to depart 
In peace, and fuse them with the ocean floor. 

" Love, that soon kindleth in a gentle heart, 
Seiz'd him thou look'st on for the form and face, 
Whose end still haunts me like a rankling dart. 

" Love, which by love will be denied no grace, 
Gave me a transport in my turn so true, 
That lo ! 'tis with me, even in this place. 

" Love brought us to one grave. The hand that slew, 
Is doom'd to mourn us in the pit of Cain." 
Such were the words that tolcl me of those two. 



302 PAULO AND FRANCESCA. 

Downcast I stood, looking so full of pain 
To think how hard and sad a case it was, 
That my guide ask'd what held me in that vein. 

His voice arous'd me ; and I said, " Alas ! 
All their sweet thoughts then, all the steps that led 
To love, but brought them to this dolorous pass." 

Then turning my sad eyes to theirs, I said, 
" Francesca, see — these human cheeks are wet — 
Truer and sadder tears were never shed. 

" But tell me. At the time when sighs were sweet, 
What made thee strive no longer ? — hurried thee 
To the last step where bliss and sorrow meet ?" 

" There is no greater sorrow," answer' d she, 
" And this thy teacher here knoweth full well, 
Than calling to mind joy in misery. 

" But since thy wish be great to hear us tell 
How we lost all but love, tell it I will, 
As well as tears will let me. It befel, 

" One day, we read how Lancelot gazed his fill 
At her he lov'd, and what his lady said. 
We were alone, thinking of nothing ill. 



PAULO AND FRANCESCA. 



303 



" Oft were our eyes suspended as we read, 
And in our cheeks the colour went and came ; 
Yet one sole passage struck resistance dead. 

" 'Twas where the loyer, moth -like in his flame, 
Drawn by her sweet smile, kiss'd it. O then, he 
Whose lot and mine are now for aye the same, 

" All in a tremble, on the mouth kiss'd me. 
The book did all. Our hearts within us burn'd 
Through that alone. That day no more read we." 

While thus one spoke, the other spirit mourn' d 
With wail so woful, that at his remorse 
I felt as though I should have died. I turn'd 



Stone-stiff; and to the ground, fell like a corse. 



UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 

FROM THE SAME. 

In the ninth, or frozen circle, of his Hell, Dante is shown the 
embodied spirits of traitors. Among them is Count Ugolino, who 
betrayed Pisa to the Florentines, horribly feeding on the skull of 
Archbishop Ruggieri, who was said to have shut up the Count with 
his four children in a tower, and starved them all to death. Dante 
interrogates Ugolino, and is told his dreadful story. 

Quitting the traitor Bocca's barking soul,* 
We saw two more, so iced up in one hole, 
That the one's visage capp'd the other's head; 
And as a famish' d man devoureth bread, 
So rent the top one's teeth the skull below 
'Twixt nape and brain. Tydeus, as stories show, 
Thus to the brain of Menalippus ate :f — 
" thou 1" I cried, " showing such bestial hate 

* This traitor, whose hair the furious poet himself has been 
plucking off by handfuls because he would not disclose his name, 
barked at every pluck like a dog. The name was disclosed by a 
fellow-sufferer. 

f For giving him his death-wound at the siege of Thebes. But 
Menalippus' s head had been cut off from his earthly body, and was 
insensible. 



UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 305 

To him thou tearest, read us whence it rose ; 
That, if thy cause be juster than thy foe's, 
The world, when I return, knowing the truth, 
May of thy story have the greater ruth," 

His mouth he lifted from his dreadful fare, 
That sinner, wiping it with the grey hair 
Whose roots he had laid waste ; and thus he said : — 
u A desperate thing thou askest ; what I dread 
Even to think of. Yet, to sow a seed 
Of infamy to him on whom I feed, 
Tell it I will : — ay, and thine eyes shall see 
Mine own weep all the while for misery. 
Who thou mayst be, I know not; nor can dream 
How thou cam'st hither ; but thy tongue doth seem 
To show thee, of a surety, Florentine. 
Know then, that I was once Count Ugoline, 
And this man was Ruggieri, the archpriest. 
Still thou mayst wonder at my raging feast ; 
For though his snares be known, and how his key 
He turn'd upon my trust, and murder 'd me, 
Yet what the murder was, of what strange sort 
And cruel, few have had the true report. 

Hear then, and judge. — In the tower, called since then 
The Tower of Famine, I had lain and seen 



306 UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 

Full many a moon fade through the narrow bars, 

When, in a dream one night, mine evil stars 

Show'd me the future with its dreadful face. 

Methought this man led a great lordly chase 

Against a wolf and cubs, across the height 

Which barreth Lucca from the Pisan's sight. 

Lean were the hounds, high-bred, and sharp for blood ; 

And foremost in the press Gualandi rode, 

Lanfranchi, and Sismondi.* Soon were seen 

The father and his sons, those wolves I mean, 

Limping, and by the hounds all crush'd and torn : 

And as the cry awoke me in the morn, 

I heard my children, while they dozed in bed 

(For they were with me), wail, and ask for bread. 

Full cruel, if it move thee not, thou art, 

To think what thoughts then rush'd into my heart. 

What wouldst thou weep at, weeping not at this ? — 

All had now waked, and something seem'd amiss, 

For 'twas the time they used to bring us bread, 

And from our dreams had grown a horrid dread. 

I listen'd ; and a key, down stairs, I heard 

Lock up the dreadful turret. Not a word 

I spoke, but look'd my children in the face : 

No tear I shed, so firmly did I brace 

* Pisan nobles, of the party opposed to that of Ugolino. 



UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 307 

My soul; but they did; and my Anselm said, 

' Father, you look so ! — Wont they bring us bread V 

E'en then I wept not, nor did answer word 

All day, nor the next night. And now was stirr'd, 

Upon the world without, another day; 

And of its light there came a little ray, 

Which mingled with the gloom of our sad jail; 

And looking to my children's bed, full pale, 

In four small faces mine own face I saw. 

Oh, then both hands for misery did I gnaw; 

And they, thinking I did it, being mad 

For food, said, ' Father, we should be less sad 

If you would feed on us. Children, they say, 

Are their own father's flesh. Starve not to-day.' 

Thenceforth they saw me shake not, hand nor foot. 

That day, and next, we all continued mute. 

thou hard Earth ! why opened'st thou not ? — 
Next day (it was the fourth in our sad lot) 

My Gaddo stretch'd him at my feet, and cried, 

1 Dear father, wont you help me V and he died. 
And surely as thou seest me here undone, 

I saw my whole four children, one by one, 
Between the fifth day and the sixth, all die. 
I became blind; and in my misery 
Went groping for them, as I knelt and crawl'd 
About the room; and for three days I call'd 
x2 



308 UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 

Upon their names, as though they could speak too, 
Till famine did what grief had faii'd to do." 

Having spoke thus, he seiz'd with fiery eyes 
That wretch again, his feast and sacrifice, 
And fasten' d on the skull, over a groan, 
With teeth as strong as mastiff's on a bone. 

Ah, Pisa ! thou that shame and scandal be 
To the sweet land that speaks the tongue of Si* 
Since Florence spareth thy vile neck the yoke, 
Would that the very isles would rise, and choke 
Thy river, and drown every soul within 
Thy loathsome walls. What if this Ugolin 
Did play the traitor, and give up (for so 
The rumour runs) thy castles to the foe, 
Thou hadst no right to put to rack like this 
His children. Childhood innocency is. 
But that same innocence, and that man's name, 
Have damn'd thee, Pisa, to a Theban fame.t 

This most affecting of all Dante's stories has been told beautifully 
(as I have remarked elsewhere) by Chaucer ; c ' but he had not the 



* The Italian for Yes. The country is thus designated by the 
commonest word in its language; as in the case of the French 
Languedoc, or Language of Oc, — the old word in that quarter of 
France for the same affirmative. 

+ Alluding to the cruelties practised in the royal house of Thebes. 



UGOLINO AND HIS CHILDREN. 309 

heart to finish it. He refers for the conclusion to his original, 
the "gretepoete of Itaille;" adding, that Dante will not fail his 
readers a single word — that is to say, not an atom of the cruelty. 
Our great gentle-hearted countryman, who tells Fortune that 

it was 

" Grete crueltie 
Such birdes for to put in such a cage," 

adds a touch of pathos in the behaviour of one of the children, 

which Dante does not seem to have thought of : 

" There, day by day, this child began to cry, 

Till in his father's barme (lap) adown he lay; 
And said, ' Farewell, father, I muste die,' 

And kissed his father, and died the same day." 

Appendix to the Author's il Stories from the 

Italian Poets" (in prose) vol. i. p. 407. 

It will be a relief perhaps, to the reader, and would have been 
a comfort to Chaucer to know, what history has since discovered, — 
namely, that the story of Ugolino is very doubtful. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 

FROM ARIOSTO. 

Ariosto does not write in the intense manner of Dante. He was a 
poet of other times and opinions ; much inferior to Dante, yet still a 
great poet of his kind, true to nature, more universal in his 
sympathies, giving wonderful verisimilitude to the wildest fictions, 
and full of a charming ease as well as force, though enjoyment 
sometimes makes him diffuse, and even a little weak and languid. 
This defect is not unobservable in the episodes before us, as far as 
style is concerned ; though otherwise, and often in the style also, 
they are full of spirit of the most various kind, both grave and 

gay. 

Medoro and Cloridano, which is a variation of the episode of 
Nisus and Euryalus in Virgil, with beautiful additions, is a story 
of friendship and gratitude, and shows the poet's hearty belief in 
those virtues. That of Angelica and Medoro, into which it runs, is a 
story of love, or rather of girlish passion, and equally shows his truth 
to the less sentimental impulses of nature, especially where he con- 
trasts his heroine's dotage on the boy with her previous indifference 
to lovers of a grander sort, who doted on herself. But coquet and 
mere girl as she was, albeit a queen, this simple reference to a fact 
in the history and constitution of human nature, has rendered her 
marriage with the young Moor a favourite with all readers ; and 
the lovely combined names of ' ' Angelica and Medoro' ' have be- 
come almost synonymous with a " true lover's knot." 

The circumstances described in these passages take place during 
the supposed siege of Paris by the Saracens, in the time of 
Charlemagne. The Saracen and Christian forces are assembled 
under the city walls, and the former have just sustained a defeat. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 311 

All night, the Saracens, in their batter' d stations, 
Feeling but ill secure, and sore distress'd, 
Gave way to tears, and groans, and lamentations, 
Only as hush'd as might be, and suppress'd; 
Some for the loss of friends and of relations 
Left on the field ; others for want of rest, 
Who had been wounded and were far from home; 
But most for dread of what was yet to come. 

Among the rest two Moorish youths were there, 
Born of a lowly stock in Ptolemais, 
Whose story teems with evidence so rare 
Of tried affection, it must here find place. 
Their names Medoro and Cloridano were. 
They had shown Dardinel* the same true face, 
Whatever fortune waited on his lance, 
And now had cross' d the sea with him to France, 

The one, a hunter, used to every sky, 
Was of the rougher make, but prompt and fleet : 
Medoro had a cheek of rosy dye, 
Fair, and delightful for its youth complete : 
Of all that came to that great chivalry, 
None had a face more lively or more sweet. 
Black eyes he had, and sunny curls of hair; 
He seem'd an angel, newly from the air. 
* One of the Saracen princes who came against Charlemagne. 



312 MEDOHO AND CLORIDANO. 

These two, with others, where the ramparts lay, 
Were keeping watch to guard against surprise, 
What time the Night, in middle of its way, 
Wonders at heaven with its drowsy eyes. 
Medoro there, in all he had to say, 
Could not but talk, with sadness and with sighs, 
Of Dardinel his lord ; nay, feel remorse, 
Though guiltless, for his yet unburied corse. 

" Oh Cloridan," he said, " I try in vain 
To bear the thought; nor ought I, if I could. 
Think of a man like that, left on the plain 
For wolves and crows ! he, too, that was so good 
To my poor self ! How can he thus remain, 
And I stand here, sparing my wretched blood 1 
Which, for his sake, might twenty times o'ernow, 
And yet not pay him half the debt I owe. 

" I will go forth, — I will, — and seek him yet, 
That he may want not a grave's covering ; 
And God will grant, perhaps, that I may get 
E'en to the sleeping camp of the French king. 
Do thou remain ; for if my name is set 
For death in heav'n, thou mayst relate the thing ; 
So that if fate cut short the glorious part, 
The world may know 'twas not for want of heart." 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 313 

Struck with amaze was Cloriclan to see 
Such heart, such love, such duty in a youth; 
And labour'd (for he lov'd him tenderly) 
To turn a thought so dangerous to them both; 
But no — a sorrow of that high degree 
Is no such thing to comfort or to soothe. 
Medoro was dispos'd, either to die, 
Or give his lord a grave wherein to lie. 

Seeing th^t nothing bent him or could move, 
Cloridan cried, " My road then shall be thine : — 
I too will j oin in such a work of love ; 
I too would clasp a death-bed so divine. 
Life — pleasure — glory — what would it behove, 
Remaining without thee, Medoro mine ! 
Such death with thee would better far become me, 
Than die for grief, shouldst thou be taken from me.' 

Thus both resolv'd, they put into their place 
The next on guard, and slip from the redoubt. 
They cross the ditch, and in a little space 
Enter our quarters, looking round about. 
So little dream we of a Moorish face, 
Our camp is hush'd, and every fire gone out. 
'Twixt heaps of arms and carriages they creep, 
Up to the very eyes in wine and sleep. 



314 MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 

Cloridan stopp'd awhile, and said, " Look here ! 
Occasions are not things to let go by. 
Some of the race who cost our lord so dear, 
Surely, Medoro, by this arm must die. 
Do thou meanwhile keep watch, all eye and ear, 
Lest any one should come: — I'll push on, I, 
And lead the way, and make through bed and board 
An ample passage for thee with my sword." 

He said; and enter'd without more ado 
The tent where Alpheus lay, a learned Mars, 
Who had but lately come to court, and knew 
Physic, and magic, and a world of stars. 
This was a cast they had not help'd him to : 
Indeed their flatteries had been all a farce ; 
For he had found, that after a long life 
He was to die, poor man, beside his wife : 

And now the cautious Saracen has put 
His sword, as true as lancet, in his weason. 
Four mouths close by are equally well shut, 
Before they can find time to ask the reason. 
Their names are not in Turpin;* and I cut 
Their lives as short, not to be out of season. 

* The supposed author of a fabulous history of Charlemagne, to 
which the Italian narrative poets are always half-ironically referring 
as their authority. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 315 

Next Palidon died, a man of snug resources, 
Who made up his bed between two horses. 

They then arriv'd, where, pillowing his head 
Upon a barrel, lay unhappy Grill. 
Much vow'd had he, and much believ'd indeed, 
That he, that blessed night, would sleep his fill. 
The reckless Moor beheads him on his bed, 
And wastes his blood and wine at the same 

spill : 
For he held quarts; and in his dreams that very 
Moment had fill'd, but found his glass miscarry. 

Near Grill, a German and a Greek there lay, 
Andropono and Conrad, who had pass'd 
Much of the night alfresco, in drink and play; 
A single stroke a-piece made it their last. 
Happy, if they had thought to play away 
Till daylight on their board his eye had cast ! 
But fate determines all these matters still, 
Let us arrange them for her as we will. 

Like as a lion in a fold of sheep, 
Whom desperate hunger has made gaunt and spare, 
Kills, bleeds, devours, and mangles in a heap 
The feeble flock collected meekly there ; 



316 MEDORO AND CLORIDAXO. 

So the fierce Pagan bleeds us in our sleep, 
And lays about, and butchers every where : 
And now Medoro joins the dreadful sport, 
But scorns to strike among the meaner sort.* 

Upon a duke he came, La Brett, who slept 
Fast in his lady's arms, embrac'd and fix'd ; 
So close they were, so fondly had they kept, 
That not the air itself could get betwixt. 
O'er both their necks at once the falchion swept. 
O happy death ! O cup too sweetly mix'd ! 
For as their bosoms and affections were, 
E'en so, I trust, their souls went join'd in air. 

Ardalic and Malindo next are slain, 
Princes whose race the Flemish sceptre wield : 
They had been just made knights by Charlemagne, 
And had the liliesf added to their shield, 
Because, the hardest day of the campaign, 
He saw them both turn blood-red in the field. 
Lands, too, he said he'd give ; and would have done it, 
Had not Medoro put his veto on it. 

* The slaughter committed by these young friends, especially by 
Medoro, jars against one's feelings; but it is too true, alas ! to 
nature, in the yet existing condition of society ; and Ariosto never 
baulks a fact of that kind. 

f The arms of France. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 317 

The wily sword was reaching now the ring 
Of the pavilions of the peers, — the fence 
Of the more high pavilion of the king. 
They were his guard by turns. The Saracens 
Here make a halt, and think it fit to bring 
Their slaughter to a close, and get them hence ; 
Since it appears impossible to make 
So wide a circuit, and find none awake. 

They might have got much booty if they chose, 
But now to get clean off is their great good. 
Cloridan leads as heretofore, and goes 
Picking the safest way out that he could. 
At last they come, where, amidst shields and bows, 
And swords, and spears, in one great plash of blood, 
Lie poor and rich, the monarch and the slave, 
And men and horses, heap'd without a grave. 

The horrible mixture of the bodies there, 
(For all the field was reeking round about) 
Would have made vain their melancholy care 
Till day-time, which 'twas best to do without, 
Had not the Moon, at poor Medoro's prayer, 
Put from a darksome cloud her bright horn out. 
Medoro to the beam devoutly rais'd 
His head, and thus petition'd as he gazed : — 



318 MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 

" O holy queen, who by our ancestors 
Justly wert worshipp'd by a triple name ; 
Who show'st in heav'n, and earth, and hell, thy powers 
And beauteous face, another and the same; 
And who in forests, thy old favourite bowers, 
Art the great huntress, following the game; 
Show me, I pray thee, where my sovereign lies, 
Who while he lived found favour in thine eyes."* 

At this, whether 'twas chance or faith, the moon 
Parted the cloud, and issued with a stoop, 
Fair, as when first she kiss'd Endymion, 
And to his arms gave herself naked up. 
The city, at that light, burst forth and shone, 
And both the camps, and all the plain and slope, 
And the two hills that rose on either quarter, 
Far from the walls, Montlery and Montmartre. 

Most brilliantly of all the lustre shower'd 
Where lay the son of great Almontes, dead. 
Medoro, weeping, went to his dear lord, 
Whom by his shield he knew, of white and red. 

* Agreeably to the popular notions of the time in which he wrote, 
Ariosto makes no distinction, as to appellation, between existing 
Mahometans and the Pagans of antiquity, and ascribes to the 
former a particular fancy for the worship of the Triple Goddess. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 319 

The bitter tears bathed all his face, and pour'd 
From either eye, like founts along their bed. 
So sweet his ways, so sweet his sorrows were, 
They might have stopt the very winds to hear. 

But low he wept, and scarcely audible; 
Not that he cared what a surprise might cost, 
From any dread of dying; for he still 
Felt a contempt for life, and wish'd it lost; 
But from the fear, lest ere he could fulfil 
His pious business there, it might be crost. 
Bais'd on their shoulders is the crowned load; 
And shared between them thus, they take their road. 

With the dear weight they make what speed 
they may, 
Like an escaping mother to a birth; 
And now comes he, the lord of life and day, 
To take the stars from heav'n, the shade from earth ; 
When the young Scottish prince,* who never lay 
Sleeping, when things were to be done of worth, 
After continuing the pursuit all night 
Came to the field with the first morning light. 

And with him came, about him and behind, 
A troop of knights, whom they could see from far, 

* Zerbino, one of the allies of Charlemagne. 



320 MEDORO AND CLOEIDANO. 

All. met upon the road, in the same mind 
To search the field for precious spoils of war. 
"Brother," said Cloridan, "we must needs, I find, 
Lay down our load, and try how fleet we are. 
It would be hardly wise to have it said, 
We lost two living bodies for a dead." 

And off he shook his burden, with that word, 
Fancying Medoro would do just the same; 
But the poor boy, who better lov y d his lord, 
Took on his shoulders all the weight that came. 
The other ran, as if with one accord, 
Not guessing what had made his fellow lame. 
Had he, he would have dared, not merely one, 
But heaps of deaths, rather than fled alone. 

The knights, who were determin'd that those 

two 
Should either yield them prisoners or die, 
Dispers'd themselves, and without more ado 
Seiz'd every pass which they might issue by. 
The chief himself rode on before, and drew 
Nearer and nearer with a steadfast eye; 
For seeing them betray such marks of fear, 
'Twas plain that in those two no friends were 

near. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDAXO. 321 

There was an old forest there in those days, 
Thick with o'ershadowing trees and underwood, 
Which, like a labyrinth, ran into a maze 
Of narrow paths, and made a solitude. 
The fliers reckoned on its friendly ways, 
For giving them close covert while pursued : — 
But he that loves these chants of mine in rhyme, 
May chuse to hear the rest another time.* 



None knows the heart in which he may confide, 
As long as he sits high on Fortune's wheel; 
For friends of all sorts then are by his side, 
Who show him all the self-same face of zeal : 
But let the goddess roll him from his pride, 
The flattering set are off upon their heel ; 
And he who lov'd him in his heart alone 
Stands firm, and will, even when life is gone. 

If eyes could see the heart as well as face, 
Many a great man at court who tramples others, 
And many an humble one in little grace, 
Would change their destiny for one another's; 
This would mount up into the highest place — 
That go and help the scullions and their mothers. 

* The eighteenth canto of the Orlando Furioso here terminates, 
and the nineteenth commences. 



322 MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 

But turn we to Medoro, good and true, 
Who lov'd his lord, whatever fate could do. 

The unhappy youth, now in the thickest way 
Of all the wood, would fain have hidden close ; 
But the dead weight that on his shoulders lay, 
Hampers his path, whichever side he goes. 
Strange to the country too, he goes astray, 
And turns and tramples 'midst the brakes and boughs. 
Meanwhile his friend, less burden'd for the race, 
Has got in safety to a distant place. 

Cloridan came to where he heard no more 
The hue and cry that sent him like a dart; 
But when he turn'd about and miss'd Medore, 
He seem'd to have deserted his own heart. 
" Good God !" he cried ; " not to see this before ! 
How could I be so mad 1 How could I part 
With thee, Medoro, and come driving here, 
And never dream I left thee, how or where V 9 

So saying, he returns with bitter sighs 
Into the tangled wood, by the same path, 
And keeps it narrowly with yearning eyes, 
And treads with zeal the track of his own death . 
And all the while, horses he hears, and cries, 
And threatening voices that take short his breath : 



MEDORO AND CLORIDANO. 323 

And last of all he hears, and now can see, 
Medoro, press' d about with cavalry. 

They are a hundred, and all round him. He, 
While the chief cries to take him prisoner, 
Turns like a wheel, and faces valiantly 
All that would seize him, leaping here and there, 
ISTow to an elm, an oak, or other tree, 
Nor ever parts he with his burden dear, 
See ! — he has laid it on the ground at last, 
The better to controul and keep it fast. 

Like as a bear, whom men in mountains start 
In her old stony den, and dare, and goad, 
Stands o'er her children with uncertain heart, 
And roars for rage and sorrow in one mood : 
Anger incites her, and her natural part, 
To use her nails, and bathe her lips in blood ; 
Love melts her, and for all her angry roar, 
Holds back her eyes to look on those she bore. 

Cloridan knows not how to give his aid, 
And yet he must, and die too : — that he knows : 
But ere he changes from alive to dead, 
He casts about to settle a few foes : 
He takes an arrow, — one of his best made, — 
And works so well in secret, that it goes 
y2 



324 MEDOKO AND CLORIDANO. 

Into a Scotchman's head, right to the brains, 
And jerks his lifeless fingers from the reins. 

The horsemen in confusion turn about, 
To see by what strange hand their fellow died, 
When a new shaft's in middle of the rout, 
And the man tumbles by his fellow's side. 
He was just wondering, and calling out, 
And asking questions, fuming as he cried ; 
The arrow comes, and dashes to his throat, 
And cuts him short in middle of his note. 

Zerbin, the leader of the troop, could hold 
His rage no longer at this new surprise, 
But darting on the boy, with eyes that roll'd, 
" You shall repent this insolence," he cries; 
Then twisting with his hand those locks of gold, 
He drags him back, to see him as he dies; 
But when he sets his eyes on that sweet face, 
He could not do it, 'twas so hard a case. 

The youth betook him to his prayers, and said, 
" For God's sake, sir, be not so merciless 
As to prevent my burying the dead : 
'Tis a king's body that's in this distress : 
Think not I ask from any other dread; 
Life could give me but little happiness. 



MEDORO AND CLORIDAXO. 32o 

All tlie life now which I desire to have, 
Is just enough to give my lord a grave. 

" If you've a Theban heart, and birds of prey 
Must have their food before your rage can cool, 
Feast them on me; only do let me lay 
His limbs in earth, that has been used to rule," 
So spake the young Medoro, in a way 
To turn a rock, it was so beautiful. 
As for the prince, so deeply was he mov'd, 
That all at once he pardon d and he lov'd. 

A ruffian, at this juncture, of the band, 
Little restrain d by what restrained the rest, 
Thrust with his lance across the suppliant's hand, 
And pierc'd his delicate and faithful breast. 
The act, — in one too under his command, — 
Displeas'd the princely chief, and much distress'd; 
The more so, as the poor boy dropp'd his head, 
And fell so pale that all belie v'd him dead. 

Such was his grief, and such was his disdain, 
That crying out, " The blood be on his head !" 
He turn'd in wrath, to give the thrust again; 
But the false villain, ere the words were said, 
Put spurs into his horse and fled amain, 
Stooping his rascal shoulders, as he fled. 



326 MEDOKO AND CLOMDANO. 

Cloridan, when he sees Medoro fall, 

Leaps from the wood, and comes defying all; 

And casts away his bow, and almost mad, 
Goes slashing round among his enemies, 
Rather for death, than any hope he had 
Of cutting his revenge to its fit size. 
His blood soon colour'd many a dripping blade, 
And he perceives with pleasure that he dies ; 
And so his strength being fairly at an end, 
He lets himself fall down beside his friend. 

The troop then follow'd where their chief had gone, 
Pursuing his stern chase among the trees, 
And leave the two companions there alone, 
One surely dead, the other scarcely less. 
Long time Medoro lay without a groan, 
Losing his blood in such large quantities, 
That life would surely have gone out at last, 
Had not a helping hand been coming past. 



ANGELICA AND MEDOBO. 

THE SEQUEL OF THE PRECEDING STORY. 

There came by chance a damsel passing there, 
Cloak'd like a peasant, to eschew surprise, 
But of a royal presence, and so fair, 
As well behov'd her keep grave maiden eyes. 
'Tis so long since I told you news of her, 
Perhaps you know her not in this disguise. 
This, you must know then, was Angelica, 
Proud daughter of the Khan of great Cathay. 

You know the magic ring, and her distress? 
Well, when she had recover'd this same ring, 
It so increased her pride and haughtiness, 
She seem'd too high for any living thing.* 
She goes alone, desiring nothing less 
Than a companion, even though a king : 
She even scorns to recollect the flame 
Of one Orlando, or his very name. 

But, above all, she hates to recollect 
That she had taken to Hinaldo so ;t 

* The ring conferred the power of invisibility. 
f Another of the Peers or Paladins of Charlemagne, second only 
in renown to Orlando. 



328 ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 

She thinks it the last want of self-respect, 

Pure degradation, to have look'd so low 

" Such arrogance/' said Cupid, " must be check'd." 

The little God betook him with his bow, 

To where Medoro lay, and standing by, 

Held the shaft ready with a lurking eye. 

Now when the princess saw the youth all pale, 
And found him grieving with his bitter wound, 
Not for what one so young might well bewail, 
But that his king should not be laid in ground, 
She felt a something, strange and gentle, steal 
Into her heart by some new way it found, 
Which touch' d its hardness, and turn'd all to grace ; 
And more so, when he told her all his case. 

And calling to her mind the little arts 
Of healing, which she learnt in India, 
(For 'twas a study valued in those parts, 
Even for those who were in sovereign sway, 
And yet so easy, too, that like the heart's, 
'Twas more inherited than learnt, they say,) 
She cast about, with herbs and balmy juices, 
To save so fair a life for all its uses. 

And thinking of an herb that caught her eye 
As she was coming, in a pleasant plain, 



ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 329 

(Whether 'twas panacea, dittany, 
Or some such herb accounted sovereign 
For staunching blood quickly and tenderly, 
And winning out all spasm and bad pain,) 
She found it not far off, and gathering some, 
Return' d with it to save Medoro's bloom. 

In coming back she met upon the way 
A shepherd, who was riding through the wood 
To find a heifer that had gone astray, 
And been two days about the solitude. 
She took him with her where Medoro lay, 
Now feebler than he was, with loss of blood : 
So much he lost, and drew so hard a breath, 
That he was now fast fading to his death. 

Angelica got off her horse in haste, 
And made the shepherd get as fast from his ; 
She ground the herbs with stones, and then express'd 
With her white hands the balmy milkiness, 
Then dropp'd it in the wound, and bath'd his 

breast, 
His sides, and spine, and all that was amiss : 
And of such virtue was it, that at length 
The blood was stopp'd, and he look'd round with 

strength. 



330 ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 

At last lie got upon the shepherd's horse, 
But would not quit the place till he had seen 
Laid in the ground his lord and master's corse ; 
And Cloridan lay with it, who had been 
Smitten so fatally with sweet remorse. 
He then obeys the will of the fair queen ; 
And she, for very pity of his lot, 
Goes and stays with him at the shepherd's cot. 

Nor would she leave him, she esteem'd him so, 
Till she had seen him well with her own eye; 
So full of pity did her bosom grow, 
Since first she saw him faint and like to die. 
Seeing his manners now, and beauty too, 
She felt her heart yearn somehow inwardly ; 
She felt her heart yearn somehow, till at last 
'Twas all on fire, and burning warm and fast. 

The shepherd's house was good enough, and neat, 
A little shady cottage in a dell : 
The man had just rebuilt it all complete, 
With room to spare, in case more births befel. 
There with such knowledge did the lady treat 
Her handsome patient, that he soon grew well; 
But not before she felt, on her own part, 
A secret wound much greater in her heart. 



ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 331 

Much greater was the wound, and deeper far, 
The invisible arrow made in her heart-strings; 
'Twas from Medoro's lovely eyes and hair; 
'T was from the naked archer with the wings. 
She feels it now; she feels, and yet can bear 
Another's less than her own sufferings. 
She thinks not of herself : she thinks alone 
How to cure him, by whom she is undone. 

The more his wound recovers and gets ease, 
Pier own grows worse, and widens day by day. 
The youth gets well; the lady languishes, 
Now warm, now cold, as fitful fevers play. 
His beauty heightens like the flowering trees ; 
She, miserable creature, melts away 
Like the weak snow, which some warm sun has found 
Fall'n, out of season, on a rising ground. 

And must she speak at last, rather than die '? 
And must she plead without another's aid ? 
She must, she must; the vital moments fly — 
She lives — she dies, a passion- wasted maid. 
At length she burst all ties of modesty ; 
Her tongue explains her eyes; the words are said; 
And she asks pity underneath that blow, 
Which he perhaps that gave it, did not know. 



332 ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 

O Count Orlando ! King Sacripant !* 
That fame of yours, say, what avails it ye ? 
That lofty honour, those great deeds ye vaunt, 
Say, what's their value with the lovely she 1 
Show me — recal to memory, (for T can't,) 
Show me, I beg, one single courtesy 
That ever she vouchsafed ye, far or near, 
For all ye've done and have endured for her. 

And you, if you could come to life again, 
O Agrican, how hard 'twould seem to you, 
Whose love was met by nothing but disdain, 
And vile repulses, shocking to go through !t 
O Ferragus ! O thousands, who in vain 
Did all that loving and great hearts could do, 
How would ye feel to see, with all her charms. 
This thankless creature in a stripling's arms ! 

The young Medoro had the gathering 
Of the first kiss on lips untouch' d before, 

* Sacripant was king of Circassia. 

t The courtship of Angelica by Agrican, King of Tartary, with 

a countless army behind him to enforce it, attracted the notice of 

Milton. 

" Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, 
When Agrican, with all his northern powers, 
Besieged Albracca, as romances tell, 
The city of G-allaphrone, from Avhence to win 
The fairest of her sex, Angelica." 

Paradise Regained. 



ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 333 

For never since her beauty blush'd with spring, 

Had passion's self dared aught except adore. 

To render the fond step an honest thing, 

The priest was cail'd to read the service o'er, 

(For without marriage what can come but strife ?)* 

And the bride-mother was the shepherd's wife. 

All was performed, in short, that could be so 
In such a place, to make the nuptials good ; 
Nor did the happy pair think fit to go, 
But spent the month and more within the wood. 
The lady to the stripling seem'd to grow ; 
His step her step, his eyes her eyes pursued; 
Nor did her love lose any of its zest, 
Though she was always hanging on his breast. 

In doors and out of doors, by night, by day, 
She had the charmer by her side for ever : 
Morning and evening they would stroll away, 
Now by some field, or little tufted river; 
They chose a cave in middle of the day, 
Perhaps not less agreeable or clever 
Than Dido and ^Eneas found to screen them, 
When storm and tempest would have rush'd between 
them. 

* A banter on the most bantered of all subjects. 



334 ANGELICA AND MEDORO. 

And all this while there was not a smooth tree, 
That drew from stream or fount its gentle pith, 
'Nor stone less hard than stones are apt to be, 
But they would find a knife to carve it with. 
And in a thousand places you might see, 
And on the walls about you and beneath, 
Angelica and Medoro, tied in one, 
As many ways as lover's knots could run. 

And when they thought they had outspent their 
time, 
Angelica the royal took her way, 
She and Medoro, to the Indian clime, 
To crown him king of her fair realm, Cathay. 



LAZY CORNER; 

OK, 

BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 



Francesco Berni, one of the most popular wits and poets of Italy, 
flourished in the fifteenth century at the courts of Clement the 
Seventh and Alessandro de Medici. A tragical story used to be 
told of his having been poisoned by Alessandro, for refusing to 
administer a like death to the poisoner's brother ; but nobody now 
believes it. Berni was related to Cardinal Bibbiena, who wrote one 
of the earliest Italian comedies ; but the cardinal, in spite of his 
comedy and his kinsmanship, did nothing for him ; and he got as 
little from his eminence's nephew, his heir; he therefore entered 
the service of the pope's datary, which he ultimately quitted to 
reside on a small canonry he possessed at Florence ; where he died, 
after a life of ease and good-fellowship, varied with serious as well 
as lively studies. 

Berni was a real poet, grave as well as gay ; but unfortunately 
he was thrown on one of the corruptest ages of Italy, and conde- 
scended to write many things unworthy of the finer parts of his 
genius, to amuse a dissolute nobility. He wrote such pure, un- 
affected Tuscan, and his manner in his lighter pieces was so ex- 
quisitely naive, full of those unexpected turns in which carelessness 
and significance meet, that although Pulci began it, and Marot and 
La Fontaine excelled in it in France, it was called after his name 
among his countrymen, by whom it is still known as the 1 1 Ber- 
nesque" style. It had many followers who became celebrated, such 



336 lazy corner; or, 

as Casa, Molza, Firenzuola, Mauro, and others, most of them 
friends of his, and members of a club called Vine-Dressers 
(Vignaiuoli), who each took the name of something in connexion 
with wine-making. They probably composed (next to our Eliza- 
bethan club at the "Mermaid,") the most brilliant assemblage of 
wits that Europe has seen, not excepting those of Charles the 
Second's time, or the coteries of the Chaulieus and Chapelles. 
Voltaire profited greatly by this style; and nobody needs to be 
reminded what lustre it has received from the pen of Lord Byron. 

But the greatest and best work of Berni, after all, was his 
modernization of Boiardo's beautiful old poem, the Orlando 
Innamorato, in which he exhibited a genius of the most solid 
description. Indeed, it is a production unique in the history of 
letters, having contested the palm of superiority with its original. 
The stanzas here attempted in English, form part of the sixty- 
seventh canto of this work. Berni inserted them in the account of 
a Fairy Palace, in which the fine old poet had brought his knights 
together to lead a luxurious life of dancing and love-making. The 
lemodeller introduces himself as a " certain Florentine," living in 
the same age, and brought here for the same purpose of doing as he 
pleased (for that was the order of the house) ; only his pleasure was, 
not to dance, or trouble himself with action of any kind, but to lie 
in bed and do nothing, his brain and all his other faculties, having, 
he says, been worn out by eternal writing and correspondence, as 
secretary to the aforesaid pope's datary, a prelate whose office it 
was to date the papal bulls, and to do a world of chancery business 
besides. Berni was a man unfit for business of any kind, except to 
write poetry and enjoy himself; and accordingly he here gives a 
ludicrous account of his official toils, and of the luxurious revenge 
he took of them out of the very prostration of his powers. Some dull 
biographers have taken the caricature for a history of his actual way 
of life ; whereas, though it is not to be doubted that he could be 
lazy enough when he chose, he must have been anything but a 
sluggard in ordinary, his company having been in the greatest 



BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 337 

request during the sprightliest period of Italian wit, besides his 
having been a visitor of divers cities, and re-written the whole of 
Boiardo's poem, which is a long one. 

It has been supposed, and I cannot help thinking justly, that 
Thomson owed the idea of his charming Castle of Indolence to 
this fancy of Berni's. Mr. Stewart Rose, in his abstract of the 
new Orlando Innamorato (p. xliv.), doubts whether the author 
of the Seasons was sufficiently conversant with Italian poetry ; 
but surely, whether he was conversant with it or not (and the pro- 
bability, I should think, was the other way), he who had been 
intimate with so many scholars of all kinds, and who had also 
travelled in Italy himself, and could have required nothing but a 
hint for a fiction so congenial, might, or rather must, have heard of 
Berni often enough for such a result. 

Thomson, a notorious lier in bed, was fifteen years writing his 
Castle of Indolence; and he is said to have been seen in his 
garden at Richmond eating a peach off a tree with his hands in his 
waistcoat pockets. I doubt if the big, but not corpulent Berni 
ever went so far on the wrong side of activity as that. 

Among the rest a Florentine there came, 

A boon companion, of a gentle kin. 
I say a Florentine, although the name 

Had taken root some time in Casentin, 
Where his good father wedded a fair dame, 

And pitch'd his tent. The place he married in 
Was call'd Bibbiena, as it is at present; 
A spot upon the Arno, very pleasant. 

Kigh to this place was Lamporecchio (scene 
Of great Masetto's gardening recreations) ; 
z 



338 lazy corner; or, 

There was our hero born ; — then, till nineteen, 
Bred up in Florence, not on the best rations; 

Then, it pleas'd God, settled at Rome; I mean, 
Drawn there .by hopes from one of his relations ; 

Who, though a cardinal, and Pope's right arm, 

Did the poor devil neither good nor harm.* 

This great man's heir vouchsafed him then his 
grace, 

With whom he fared as he was wont to fare; 
Whence, finding himself still in sorry case, 

He thought he might as well look out elsewhere ; 
So hearing people wish they had a place 

With the good Datary of St. Peter's chair, 
A thing they talk'd of with a perfect unction — 
Place get he did in that enchanting function. 

* Tliis was the Cardinal Bibbiena aforesaid, who had been tutor 
to Leo X., and possessed great influence. He seems to have been 
fond of complimenting the disinterestedness of his friends by doing 
nothing for them. He was very intimate with Ariosto, and there- 
fore did nothing for him; as the great poet himself has intimated 
in his Satires. Nay, when Leo issued his Bull, securing the pro- 
perty of the Orlando Furioso to its author, "Dear Bibbiena," 
says Ariosto, " expedited the matter for me — at my own expense." 

" II mio Bibbiena 
Espedito mi ha il resto alle mie spese." 

Vide the Satire addressed to his cousin Annibal Mdlcgucci. 



BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 339 

This was a business which he thought he knew ; 

Alas ! he found he didn't know a bit of it ; 
Nothing went right, slave as he might, and stew; 

And yet he never, somehow, could get quit of it ; 
The more he did, the more he had to do \ 

Desk, shelves, hands, arms, whatever could admit 
of it, 
Were always stuff' d with letters and with dockets, 
Turning his brains, and bulging out his pockets. 

Luckless in all, perhaps not worth his hire, 
He even miss'd the few official sweets; 

Some petty tithes assign'd him did but tire 
His patience ; nil was always on their sheets. 

Now 'twas bad harvests, now a flood, now fire, 
Now dev'l himself, that hinder d his receipts. 

There were some fees his due; — God knows, not 
many; 

No matter; — never did he touch a penny. 

The man, for all that, was a happy man; 

Thought not too much; indulg'd no gloomy fit. 
Folks wish'd him well. Prince, peasant, artisan, 

Every one lov'd him ; for the rogue had wit, 
And knew how to amuse. His fancy ran 

On thousands of odd things, on which he writ 
z2 



340 



lazy corner; or, 



Certain mad waggeries in the shape of poems, 
With strange elaborations of their proems.* 

Choleric he was withal, when fools reprov'd him ; 

Free of his tongue, as he was frank of heart ; 
Ambition, avarice, neither of them mov'd him ; 

True to his word; caressing without art; 
A lover to excess of those that lov'd him; 

Yet if he met with hate, could play a part 
Y^hich show'd the fiercest he had found his mate; 
Still he was proner far to love than hate. 

In person he was big, yet tight and lean, 

Had long, thin legs, big nose, and a large face ; 

Eyebrows which there was little space between; 
Deep-set, blue eyes; and beard in such good case, 

That the poor eyes would scarcely have been seen, 
Had it been suffer'd to forget its place; 

But not approving beards to that amount, 

The owner brought it to a sharp account. 

But of all things, all servitude loath'd he ; 

Why then should fate have wound him in its bands ? 

* Berni introduced a fashion among the wits of writing on the 
most unpromising subjects, and showing how much could be made 
out of them. Among his themes were " Praises of being in Debt," 
" Of the Plague," &c. 



BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 341 

Freedom seem'd made for him, yet strange to see, 
His lot was always in another's hands ; 

His ! who had always thirsted instantly 
To disobey commands, because commands ! 

Left to his own free will, the man was glad 

To further yours. Command him, he went mad. 

Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like 
courses, 
Things which he might be thought to set store 

by, 

Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses; 

But was content to let them please his eye, 
Buying them squaring not with his resources ; 

Therefore his summum bonum was to lie 
Stretch'd at full length; — yea, frankly be it said, 
To do no single thing but lie in bed. 

'Twas owing all to that infernal writing. 

Body and brain had borne such grievous rounds 
Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing, 

That he could find no balsam for his wounds, 
No harbour for his wreck, half so inviting 

As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds, 
And so, in bed, do nothing on God's earth, 
But try and give his senses a new birth. 



342 

Bed, bed's the thing, by Heav'n ! (thus would he swear) 
Bed is your only work ; your only duty. 

Bed is one's gown, one's slippers, one's arm-chair, 
Old coat; you're not afraid to spoil its beauty. 

Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair, 
Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye; 

Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double ; 

Be but in bed, you're quit of earthly trouble. 

Borne to the fairy palace then, but tir'd 
Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew 

Into a distant room, and there desir'd 

A bed might be set up, handsome and new, 

With all the comforts that the case requir'd — 
Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few, 

Put here and there, in order that no ease 

Might be found wanting to cheeks, arms, or knees. 

The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see, 

With white sheets, and fine curtains, and rich loops, 

Things vastly soothing to calamity; 

The coverlet hung light in silken droops : 

It might have held six people easily, 
But he dislik'd to lie in bed by groups. 

A large bed to himself; — that was his notion; 

With room enough to swim in, like the ocean. 



BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 343 

In this retreat there join'd him a good soul, 
A Frenchman, one who had been long at court, 

An admirable cook ; though, on the whole, 
His gains of his deserts had fallen short. 
' For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl, 
A second bed of the same noble sort, 

Yet not so close, but that the folks were able 

To set between the two a dinner-table. 

Here was serv'd up, on snow-white table-cloths, 
Every the daintiest possible comestible 

In the French taste (all others being Goths), 
Dishes alike delightful and digestible; 

Only our scribe chose syrups, soups, and broths, 
The smallest trouble being a detestable 

Bore, into which not ev'n his dinner led him ; 

Therefore the servants always came, and fed him. 

Nothing at these times but his head was seen ; 

The coverlet came close beneath his chin; 
And then, from out the bottle or tureen, 

They fill'd a silver pipe, which he let in 
Between his lips, all easy, smooth, and clean, 

And so he fill'd his philosophic skin : 
For not a finger all the while he stirr'd; 
Nor, lest his tongue should tire, scarce utter'd word. 



344 lazy corner; or, 

The name of that same cook was Master Pierre :* 
He told a tale well, something short and light. 

Quoth scribe, " Those people that keep dancing there, 
Have little wit." Quoth Pierre, " You're very right." 

And then he told a tale, or humm'd an air; 
Then took a sup of something, or a bite ; 

And then he turn'd himself to sleep ; and then 

Awoke and ate; and then he slept again. 

This was their mode of living, day by day ; 

'Twixt food and sleep their moments softly spun ; 
They took no note of time and tide, not they ; 

Feast, fast, or working-day, they held all one ; 
Never disputed one another's say; 

Never heard bell, never were told of dun. 
It was particularly understood, 
No news was to be brought them, bad or good. 

* He is called Maestro Pier, and Piero Buffetto (Buffet), in Berni's 

Miscellaneous Poems, and appears to have been well known. Our 

author, besides other pieces, addressed to him one in praise of 

Aristotle, in which he laments, that the great philosopher, among 

the other marvels of his genius, had not benefited mankind with a 

treatise on cookery. 

" Oh Dio, ehe crudelta ! che non compose 
Un operetta sopra la eucina 
Tra rinfmite sue miracolose." 

Good God ! how oruel in him not to write 

Some little work concerning cookery, 
'Mongst all the wonders of his thoughtful might ! 



BED VERSUS BUSINESS. 345 

But, above all, no writing was known there, 
No pen and ink, no pounce-box. Oh, my God ! 

Like toads and snakes we shunn'd 'em ; like despair, 
Like death, like judgment, like a fiery rod; 

So green the wounds, so dire the memories were, 
Left by that rack of ten long years and odd, 

Which tore out of his very ]ife and senses 

The most undone of all amanuenses. 

One more thing I may note, that made the day 
Pass well; one custom, not a little healing; 

Which was, to look above us, as we lay, 

And count the spots and blotches in the ceiling : 

Noting what shapes they took to, and which way, 
And where the plaster threaten'd to be peeling ; 

Whether the spot look'd new, or old, or what ; 

Or whether 'twas, in fact, a spot or not.* 

* Such readers of Italian as possess Berai's Orlando Innamorato, 
may possibly observe, that in this last stanza I have departed a 
little from the original ; blotches and spots in ceilings being things 
less difficult to conceive in the houses of modern European gentry 
than the beams and rafters of those in the time of the poet. I have 
modified a sentence or two in Ariosto for a different reason. 



THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. WRITTEN DURING THE OLD REGIME " 

On business call'd from his abode, 
A curate jogg'd along the road. 
In patient leanness jogg'd his mare; 
The curate, jogging, breath' d a prayer; 
And jogging as she fac'd the meads, 
His maid, behind him, told her beads. 

They hear a carriage; it o'ertakes 'em; 
With grinding noise and dust it rakes 'em; 
'Tis he himself ! they know his port ; 
My Lord the Bishop, bound to court. 
Beside him, to help meditation, 
The lady sits, his young relation. 

The carriage stops ! the curate doffs 
His hat, and bows ; the lady coughs : 
The prelate bends his lordly eyes, 
And " How now, sir !" in wrath he cries ; 

* I have forgotten the name of the author from whom I trans- 
lated this jeu d > esprit. 



THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP. 347 

" What ! choose the very King's highway, 
And ride with girls in open day ! 
Good heav'ns ! what next will curates do 1 
My fancy shudders at the view. — 
Girl, cover up your horrid stocking : 
Was ever seen a group so shocking 1" 

" My Lord/' replies the blushing man, 
" Pardon me, pray, and pardon Anne; 
Oh deem it, good my lord, no sin : 
I had no coach to put her in." 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 

FROM THE LUTRIN OF BOILEAU. 

The subject of the Lutrin {the Lectern, or Reading Desk) is a dis- 
pute between the Chanter and Treasurer (or Dean) of a Cathedral 
Chapel in Paris, respecting the right of having a desk of that 
description in the Choir, and of giving the benediction. If the 
Chanter can succeed in publicly giving the benediction to the Dean 
himself, he thinks he shall establish that privilege without further 
trouble : on the other hand, if the Dean can get the start of him, 
and bless the Chanter, his predominance is secured for ever. 

Luckily for the Dean, whenever he and the Chanter are together, 
and a multitude assembled, he enjoys, from prescription, the 
greater influence ; and how he gains his end accordingly, is set 
forth in the ensuing Battle of the Books, which is the original of 
Swift's prose satire. Boileau is quite at home in it. It gives him 
an opportunity, as Warton observes, of indulging in his favourite 
pastime of ridiculing bad authors. This perhaps is the liveliest 
and most inventive passage in all the Lutrin; and it may be fairly 
pitted against the Battle of the Beaux and Ladies in the Rape of 
the Loch, being at once more satirical, probable, and full of life. 
If Pope's mock-heroic excels in delicacy and fancy (which I cannot 
but think it does, out and out), Boileau's may lay claim to a jollier 
and robuster spirit of ridicule, and to a greater portion of what the 
French call movement. 

Meanwhile the Canons, far from all this noise, 
With rapid mouthfuls urge the hungry joys: 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS, 349 

With flowing cups and irritating salt, 
Their thirst by turns they lay and they exalt : 
Fervent they feed, with palate and with eye; 
Through all its caverns gapes a monstrous ven'son pie. 

To these Fame comes, and hastens to relate 
The law consulted and the threaten'd fate : 
Up starts the chief, and cries " Consult we too 1" 
With bile and claret strove his sudden hue. 
Groans Everard from the board untimely torn, 
But far away among the rest is borne. 



A short and secret passage knew the band; 
Through this they ruffle, and soon reach the stand, 
Where Barbin, bookseller of equal eye, 
Sells good and bad to all who choose to buy. 
Proud up the platform mount the valiant train 
Making loud way, when lo ! so fates ordain, 
As proud, and loud, and close at hand are seen 
The fervid squadron, headed by the Dean. 
The chiefs approaching, show a turbid grace; 
They measure with their eyes, they fume, they face ; 
And, had they hoofs, had paw'd upon the place. 



Thus two proud bulls, whom equal flames surprise 
For some fair heifer with her Juno's eyes, 



350 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 

Forget their pasture, meet with horrid bows, 
And stooping, threaten with their stormy brows. 

But the sad Everard, elbow'd as he pass'd, 
No longer could endure his demi-fast. 
Plung'd in the shop, he seizes on a book, 
A " Cyrus"* (lucky in the first he took), 
And aiming at the man (Boirude was he) 
Launch'd at his head the chaste enormity. 
Boirude evaded, graz'd in cheek alone, 
But Sidrac's stomach felt it with a groan. 
Punch' d by the dire " Artamenes," he fell 
At the dean's feet, and lay incapable. 
His troop believe him dead, and with a start 
Feel their own stomachs for the wounded part. 

But rage and fear alike now rouse their gall, 
And twenty champions on the murd'rer fall. 
The Canons, to support the shock, advance: 
On every side ferments the direful dance; 
Then Discord gives a roar, loud as when meet 
Two herds of rival graziers in a street. 

* Artamenes, or the Grand Cyrus, written by Mademoiselle 
Scuderi. The books mentioned in this battle are either obso- 
lete French works, or sorry productions of the author's contem- 
poraries. 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 351 

The bookseller was out, the troops rush in, 

Fast fly his quartos, his octavos spin. 

On Everard most they fall as thick as hail, 

As when in spring the stony showers prevail, 

And beat the blossoms till the season fail. 

All arm them as they can : one gives a scotch 

With " Love's Decree;" another, with the " Watch ; 

This a French " Tasso" flings, a harmless wound, 

And that the only " Jonas" ever bound. 

The boy of Barbin vainly interferes, 

And thrusts amidst the fray his generous ears : 

Within, without, the books fly o'er and o'er, 

Seek the dipp'd heads, and thump the dusty floor, 

And strew the wondering platform at the door. 

Here, with G-uarini, Terence lies; and there 

Jostles with Xenophon the fop La Serre. 

Oh what unheard-of books, what great unknowns, 

Quitted that day their dusty garrisons ! 

You, " Almerinde and Simander," mighty twins, 

Were there, tremendous in your ancient skins : 

And you, most hidden " Caloander," saw 

The light for once, drawn forth by Gaillerbois. 

Doubtful of blood, each handles his brain-pan : 

On every chair there lies a clergyman. 

A critical " Le Yayer" hits Giraut 

Just where a reader yawns, and lays him low. 



3-52 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 

Marin, who thought himself translator proof, 

On his right shoulder feels a dire Brebeuf ; 

The weary pang pervades his arm ; he frowns, 

And damns the " Lucan" dear to country towns. 

Poor Dodillon, with senses render'd thick 

By a " Pinchene" in quarto, rises sick ; 

Then walks away. Him scorn'd in vain Garagne, 

Smitten in forehead by a " Charlemagne :" 

wonderful effect of sacred verse ! 

The warrior slumbers where he meant to curse. 

Great glory with a "Clelia," Bloc obtain'd; 

Ten times he threw it, and ten times regain' d. 

But nought, Fabri, withstood thy bulky Mars, 
Thou Canon, nurs'd in all the church's wars. 
Big was Fabri, big bon'd, a large divine; 
No water knew his elemental wine. 
By him both Gronde and Gourme were overthrown, 
And tenor Gras, and Gros the barytone, 
And Gervis, bad except in easy parts, 
And Gigue, whose alto touch'd the ladies' hearts. 

At last the Singers, turning one and all, 
Fly to regain the loop-holes of the Hall : 
So fly from a grey wolf, with sudden sweep, 
The bleating terrors of a flock of sheep; 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 353 

Or thus, o'erborne by the Pelidean powers, 

The Trojans turning sought their windy towers. 

Brontin beheld, and thus address'd Boirude : 

" Illustrious carrier of the sacred wood,* 

Thou, who one step didst never yet give way, 

Huge as the burthen was, and hot the day; 

Say, shall we look on this inglorious scene, 

And bear a Canon conquering a Dean? 

And shall our children's children have it said, 

The rochet's dignity, through us, fell dead % 

Ah, no ; disabled though I thus recline, 

A carcase still, and a Quinaut, are mine; 

Accept the covert of my bulk, and aim ; 

A blow may crown thee with a David's fame." 

He said, — and tended him the gentle book; 

With ardour in his eyes the sexton took, 

Then lurk'cl, then aim'd, and right between the 

eyes 
Hit the great athlete, to his dumb surprise. 
O feeble storm ! bullet, not of lead ! 
The book, like butter, dumps against his head. 
With scorn the Canon chafed : " Now mark," said he, 
" Ye secret couple, base and cowardly ; 
See if this arm consents against the foe 
To launch a book, that softens in the blow." 

* The large crucifix in processions. 
A A 



354 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 

He said; and on an old Infortiat seiz'd,* 
In distant ages much by lawyers greas'd, — 
A huge black-letter mass, whose mighty hoards 
More mighty look'd, bound in two ponderous boards. 
Half sides of old black parchment wooed the grasp, 
And from three nails there hung the remnant of a 

clasp. 
To heave it on its shelf, among the I's, 
Would take three students of the common size. 
The Canon, nathless, rais'd it to his head, 
And on the pair, now crouching and half dead, 
Sent with both hands the wooden thunder down : 
Groan the two warriors, clashing in the crown, 
And murder'd and undone with oak and nails, 
Forth from the platform roll, and seek the guttery 

vales. 

The Dean, astonish' d at a fall so dire, 
Utters a cry as when the punch'd expire. 
He curses in his heart all devilish broils, 
And making awful room, six steps recoils. 

* " Infortiat (law, the second part of the digest) Infortiatum." 
Dufief's French- English Dictionary. Enforcement? It appears 
to have been the ecclesiastical portion of the General Body of Juris- 
prudence — Canon Law. If so, there is much wit in the recourse 
had by the Canon to this compulsory folio. 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 355 

Not long : — for now all eyes encountering his, 
To see how Deans endure calamities, 
Like a great chief he makes no further stand, 
But drawing from his cloak his good right hand, 
And stretching meek the sacred fingers twain, 
Goes blessing all around him, might and main. 
He knows full well, not only that the foe 
Once smitten thus, can neither stand nor go, 
But that the public sense of their defeat 
Must leave him lord, in church as well as street. 
The crowd already on his side he sees; 
The cry is fierce, " Profane ones, on your knees :" 
The Chanter, who beheld the stroke from far, 
In vain seeks courage for a sacred war : 
His heart abandons him : he yields, he flies ; 
His soldiers follow with bewilder d eyes : 
All fly, all fear, but none escape the pain; 
The conq'ring fingers follow and detain. 
Everard alone, upon a book employed, 
Had hoped the sacred insult to avoid; 
But the wise chief, keeping a side-long eye, 
And feigning to the right to pass him by, 
Suddenly turn'd, and facing him in van, 
Beyond redemption bless' d th' unhappy man. 
The man, confounded with the mortal stroke, 
From his long vision of rebellion woke, 



356 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS. 

Fell on his knees in penitential wise, 
And gave decorum what he owed the skies. 

Home trod the Dean victorious, and ordain'd 
The resurrection of the desk regain'd : 
While the vain Chapter, with its fallen crest, 
Slunk to its several musings, lost and bless d. 



THE END. 



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